doesn't hurt, not
always. Sometimes
it heals the cracks in your
ribs and eases you gently into sleep
for the first time in weeks.
Truth
is curious and ugly and forever half-hidden,
cowering uncomfortably behind
partial lies, obscured like
the sun rising behind the mountains.
It's seemingly more beautiful
when cloaked,
if only you don't look it in the eye
and let the darkness help to scatter
all its fuchsias and violets across the horizon.

is windy, almost cold
littered with people,
watchers, walkers, guests in the house
of ocean.
“Don’t step on the sandcastle,”
a mother warns, as if
it will stand through the night, as if
the tide should listen to her.
“Look at all these shells, girls,”
a father smiles, as if
they did not tread on
the bones of those exiled
from their silent ecosystem.
The people stop and stare
at the waves, as if
they will change, as if
they will stop, as if
the sea is not staring back.
And at the edge, I
sit shivering, in awe
almost afraid to peer beneath
the rippled glass.

This is the tightrope we
are so privileged
to dance on, my dear
as we tarry on the line
between danger and grace.

waiting at the crosswalk
next to a man, but with
an air of being alone.
She stands proudly in her
body, her feet planted
stoically on the sidewalk
her lips are slightly parted
to blow a single silver ringlet
out of her face.
I wish I were her,
for even an instant,
instead of a car passenger
stuck staring out the window
at strangers she's known for
a lifetime.

and I don’t know why.
I woke up with pins and
needles, and they’ve been aching since.
I’ve barely walked, at least
not more than normal
but they feel as if they might
crack and bleed.
They hurt more knowing
all the things you had planned for us -
skipping and jumping and dancing
and laughing
and though I’ve cried to them
they just won’t let me go.
All I can do is
apologize to you and your
runner friends
for everything I can’t
bring myself to do.