there is a single scratch
on the waxy hardwood floor
from where she broke
one night in august.

a single, jagged line
where her feet tripped on the broken frames
that held fleeting moments
where her chin hit the ground
because her knees already had
where her hands couldn’t let go of her own lungs
to catch herself in time

its submerged now
in a puddle of crimson tears
and surrounded by
shreds of her white cotton sweater
with the ink stain on the cusp

you see
she was trying to fly
but her shoe laces had grown to vines
that crawled up the sides of houses
and into the drainpipes beneath the city

she wanted to dance on cloudy pillow tops
sing the lullabies her mother whispered into her dreams
pull sunbeams through her fingers and tie them into her braids

she hadn’t learned
skies rest on the ground
clouds need valleys to cry on
the earth must turn for the sun to rise
to fly you must have the floor to leave.

Friends are a lot like
leaves of a tree,
or roots of a tree.

They're in your life for
a few seasons and fly,
or in your life forever...

What did it take?

A beautiful boy packed tight
With no hint of a man’s chin
By his dad who
Kissed him goodbye
With a hope of seeing him later

What did he know?

Carrying a sunburst in canvas
To strangers who never noticed
That their end stood five-feet-two
With a running nose
And a mind full of his mum

What did he think?

Avoiding all eyes as he stood
Among them with a small chest
That felt ready to explode
With the pressure of keeping
A secret for moments more

What would he think?

His life now a curling photo on a shelf
In a home where a family once laughed
And dust on a street where people still
Buy drinks, phone covers and fruit

Little nightingale,
wings of white and gold.
Little nightingale,
singing gay and bold.
Fly away, far from your iron cage.
Fly away, up in the North sky.
One day you will come back,
singing your last requiem to me,
For I shall be there to hear no more.
   You are very brave,
   and you are very free,
So do not fall into sorrow,
do not fall into eternal repose.
But until then...
  - Sing, oh sing,
My sweetest nightingale
high above my broken baroque grave

bleach
the pink splotches on my not white clothing are because of you

dilute it and you have soap
drink it and you've got death

hum and click your fingernails if they're long enough to reach the table

rub it into your skin and forget your parents' identity
clean the counter with it

bleach

if you're reading this, we must have made it after all.

Why an emptiness within
with the summer wind
blowing away the dust

Why the mute tears
we weren't friends for years
but came together awhile

The earth doesn't pause to grieve
but in the heart of hearts
when a good friend leaves
the void for lifetime hurts.