When I owned the moon,
each song made me swoon,
and birds, they celebrated magic,
but I dropped the ball,
and down did it fall.
Now all they sing is tragic.

Beneath my ribs, a songbird sleeps,

Whispering truths no one dares to keep.

I thread my wounds through silken lies,

Broken glass beneath soft lullabies.

He moves like shadow, so close, so far,

Reaching for a light that isn’t where we are.

I hush my heart – let it break, let it bleed, unseen.

I am 4.
14.
24.
38.

I am 38 and you’re making me scrambled eggs.

You got the call and you’re making me scrambled eggs.

It’s the night before the morning of your transplant.

Old women sing of their mothers.
And I know I will always miss you when you’re gone.

But not today.
Not today.

I’m sorry, I say.
And you say, no. I’m your mama.

I’ll always be here to make you scrambled eggs.

I am 38.
24.
14.
4.

And we’re at the kitchen table. You’re so tired and I’m so little and it’s so late.

I’m sorry, I say.

And you say, no. I’m your mama.

I’ll always be here to make you scrambled eggs.

Confidence used to be
Like a shelf I couldn’t ever quite
Reach.

But turns out, I just needed to
Get up off of my
Knees.

Oh golden hues
of soft sunlight
you bathe the world
and cast away night

Warming earth
and bark, and leaf
stealing cold
liken to a thief

Would it be that my life
could be spent
in this moment

The Colour of love is
The colour of your eyes

The sound of love is
The softness of your sighs

The feel of love is
Your hand on my face

The time of love is
With you in this place

My love for you is both timeless and immense
Given freely, with no need for recompense