i am always shaky in the dusty mornings
when lighter-than feather thoughts
awake from their shuttering cocoons
and the sun sits next to me, in my fisted but delicate hands
whispering violet'd but opaque desires
through a coffee filter,
"i have become slower,
i have become at peace,
i have become a lover, but yet,"
and red bursts from beside my head!
o, and granules of sparkling water
are present still, in my almost-sister's weathered boots
like suns shining, we are!
her treasure walked through the painter door
hands morphed inside constellations,
draped above the slow breath she leaves,
a mobile in the night, and silenced waterbodies, held by plants.
had we held her as a child, (do not falter now)
maybe a painter would have emerged from her cracking bones
maybe a wonder would have appeared on the corner of madison
well, try to change my nested qualities
you will not, you will not, you will not
a drawing, lost in a sea of leaves
and even spherical candles cannot whisk you into a life undeserved
