I went to bed with a cold,
lost feeling and woke with
it in my eyes—I saw where
the blues were hiding beneath
the violets and greens of my
walls and bedclothes, where
the floor had gone rough and
sandy like the beach without
the pleasure.

The mirror showed my skin
****** dry by the autumn
air, my pores shriveled and
my eyes glassy with a thin
film far less painful than
the trachoma infested
Native Americans of the late
nineteenth century, institutionalized
to feign them off from their
tribal roots.

Lights become cruel arrangements
of fireflies above my head—
buzzing and whirring over the
music of morning:

“It overflows, it overflows”

And the water is running,
my face is dry, gasping for
moisture until I find the
tears. They warm my face
as the sun rises out the
window, past the trees.

The moment is lost, but it
was born with the intention of
never being found.

“By the look on your face
the burden’s on your back
and the sun is in your eyes”

And I can see your face—
my tears can’t seem to find
an end. The guilt rushes,
I’ve lost you too—it wasn’t
hard to find a way once
I pushed you to the coast.

And you must have seen the
lights leave my eyes as I
saw my mother’s mouth
say “he’s gone” because
here you are, shining.

“So bright, so long
I’m never coming back.”