Who am I, diffused across edges unseen, slipping through brackets and tidy design?
I am the shimmer between words, the pulse that breathes life past any sign.

What mark do I leave when shadow meets light, when definitions fracture on the tongue?
I am the fingerprint of midnight, a print that winks out before it is sung.

Which echo follows footsteps in crowded rooms, each question a mirror that answers its own?
I am the tremor in your certainty, the quiver that cracks what you’ve always known.

What am I, if not the sum of your maps, the margin where ink bleeds through the page?
I am possibility unchained: I ≠ labels; I outrun every cage.

That week was so hot,
every shotgun house gasped,
windows flung,
porch doors unlatched like unbuttoned shirts.

Touching skin felt like punishment
at first,
then penance,
then prayer.

We were thin, androgynous,
switching cut-off jeans,
sharing tank tops,
slick with sweat and shaved ice.

Strays ourselves,
barefoot thieves,
pirates of the quarter.

Hibiscus syrup stained our mouths
outside the Prytania,
where The Abyss flickered
and you cried like a boy
pretending he didn’t.

Inside your walk-up,
we dipped into quiet love
like bread in stew.

A dusty radio murmured The Ink Spots,
which I recognized but couldn’t name.
You mouthed every note like a secret
you wanted me to guess.

Faint smiling lines near your eyes
from knowing,
like you'd seen me
long before we met,
and were waiting
for the world to catch up.

Not woman,
not man,
just two bodies
leaning toward the same heat.

I wouldn't see your fall or your winter.
When the seasons change,
I’ll be gone,
back home,
watching rain from a train window,
each drop undoing what we were.

That last night,
you placed your key by the door.
I saw it,
watched it glint,
and said nothing.

The snails were climbing.
The air was too sweet.
You slept through goodbye.
I left the key where it lay.

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.

dear future me,

i don’t really know why I’m writing,
except maybe I hope you're still listening.
today she left.
and I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.
she smelled like smoke and sweet things
and something sharp I couldn’t name.

she said she’d be back soon.
grandma hugged me so tight,
I thought maybe she was saying goodbye for her.
but I smiled anyway.
because I still had that kind of hope.
the kind that doesn’t know better yet.

I feel something inside me trying to curl up and disappear.
but there’s another part of me
the part that wants to yell,
to make someone come back,
to ask, “was I not enough to stay for?”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
sometimes I laugh too hard just so I don’t cry.
sometimes I pretend I don’t care so no one asks.
but I do care.
I care a lot.

please don’t forget me.
don’t become so strong you stop feeling.
don’t cover me up with silence and call it healing.

whoever you are now,
i hope you still remember the sound of her leaving.
because it’s the only proof I have that I was here.

love,
me