he wants to leave and i help him to pack
because i know where things are
because i want to keep them for myself  

no wonder he’s not sticking around
an abrupt invasion of privacy is bound to end this way
good thing he didn’t burn all the bridges just yet
they welcome him back with open hands

we talk about a friend of a friend who’s friend with other friends but not ours
twice removed thrice forgotten at the party
no bad blood but don’t hold your breath for wedding invitation
i don’t have an appropriate dress and no means to come by 
since we’re started talking in lower voices about grown-up things like mortgage and 401k
we’re in an endless cycle of negotiation
with ourselves and each other
so long, don't think I'll ever throw a party for this tea set for six

been staying awake doing an inventory
picking my own thoughts from those i borrowed
how do you not miss them? guess you sleep better now

A picture of your mother
dull colors of a bygone era
a polaroid born faded
a memory bestowed upon you by another
a hearsay tale long lost in time
more far than you can count on fingers
she smiles
a smile reserved for the unburdened
you wonder when this woman is
she looks happy

A finger painting of your mother
all colors watered down
a reminder that you must
prioritize
some things carry more meaning
other need meaning poured onto them
cupped like water in both hands
presented to a lip-cracked child
some water saturate the soul
while keeping others thirsty
some colors are skin deep

Your mother, wrapped in blankets
in an almost vacant bed
her paint, dry and life-bleached
you sit with her
through all these final hours
watching as the outer coating
peels off and settles to the floor
solemnly, you sweep the flakes
an acolyte on hallow ground
choosing the most beautiful
pasting to a piece of paper
crafting the image of a woman
that once could have been
your mom