Here I am and my feet become water.
Listen, my ears curl differently than others.
The ground hugs me every time you look up.
You're a world away but sometimes, I swear, I see you.
Twice, I saw you born while riding my bicycle.
Twice, I saw you mourning, riding my bicycle.
Your hand grasped the moon, as I gasped in desperation because the wheels refused to breathe. And you won't remember, not a single thing, what we shared: how every morning, we had a heart attack–it's called waking up.
Someone will be rising.
Did I stumble yet?
I stopped steering but I approached you because nothing can separate heads from tails.
From dad, I knew you weren't big, you're beautiful.
From mom, I knew beautiful is a big word.
If I fall, leave me.
If I fracture, perform some magic.
Unknown to me is why it never feels enough.
This is the guilt stuck in my eye, permanent as my sight.
Honestly. Do you know why forgiving someone is harder than saying sorry?
I don't, I hope you can forgive me. I hope I can forgive time–even when time is all that remains.
If you've found what you're looking for, don't come back.
If the lights go out, and the candle wick is reduced to ashes, gather that dust and look into the dark. See the glimmer and fade into light. Some will say you're unrealistic. Don't worry, we're dreamers here. Go on. Watch a dog run to her parent. Watch, as she digs to find another version of today.