It was the year you realized
your parents weren't perfect.
I memorized the sound of planes taking off,
telling me that
I cannot leave yet,
but I cannot love here.
This is not the place for it.
You and I are still alive.

Half of August's heat
still sears my skin
safe under my coat
and nothing else let in.
I crush cherries in my hands,
wanting nothing else to leave,
nothing else to change, still as the winter freeze.

Each face I looked into had its own headstone
I could tell they were dead and yet not free,
souls trapped on the face of the earth
and their bodies lying empty.
I did not want to greet them,
to know their names or where they come from,
and slowly they drift away
and I am alone again.