There were places I should not have gone
Like the path of squeaking tires
On rainy nights
Skidding

Slipping
Falling on top of each other
A highway pile-up

With flames raging in the air

"You remind me of that,"
I tell this moment as it passes me by

The leaves above my head
Fire engine red
Softly waving in the breeze




The water doesn't wash the color away

cold benches

black benches

silver coal in moonlight

red golf umbrella

gold yellow in moonlight


a yellow spider climbs on




a cobweb dangles below
torn by wind

Things they do not tell you about goodbyes:

No one tells you
When you walk out of your house

Your home,
For all purposes

That sometimes
You don't miss it

You do not turn around on your ankle

Look at those heights

And want to return


No one tells you
That even when you travel to the absolute extent
Of this earth

You will find that people will still be the same
You will still be the same


No one tells you
That sometimes
You do not miss
What you left behind


They will not tell you
That you will find comfort in
Dark, frightening places with unfamiliar faces
In shadows

They do not tell you
That
You
Will still be
alone





This feels exactly like home
I am not sure what I am meant to miss
Except the solitude and the stars every other night




The rain kisses the earth in different ways here

It does not send petrichor soaring
Throughout the atmosphere

And it does not torrentially lash at the earth

It is soft and slow
Like the softest cotton wool of the blankets
You cuddled in when you were a child


The rain kisses the earth differently
My ears perked up, I realize





The rain kissed the earth of my hometown differently
With thunder raging in the skies

Summer heat hangs in the air
and she’s stretched out along the window-seat
lips parted, sweat-drenched, dreaming of
the coldest touch.
And the sun, he watches over her,
spectator to every twitch,
every flutter across her face,
traitors of the masquerade
she wears for his eyes only.

July heat chokes the air
and she’s clinging to the window-seat,
gasping, heaving, retching out the
remnants of a fever which
boiled her blood and consumed her heart.
Salt-kissed tears have long since
relieved her vision,
yet delirium is a faithful companion
and regret stings like
only a lover can.

August heat steals the air,
and she’s curled up in the corner of the window-seat,
lips parted, sweat-drenched, praying for
the sun to forgive the dusk which
rings her eyes,
this tragic, tarnished complexion.
He coaxes droplets from her lashes,
dusts away the spots from her cheeks,
brights her lungs
so she can breathe again.
Red, raw, relieved, she is awake,
and just a little bit lighter.

Memories of heat linger in the air
and she’s taken apart the window-seat,
to build a hanging garden in its place.
Her flowers dream
of the warmest touch.

And the sun, he watches over them.