telma

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