dying from my (youth or you)sunday.
i couldn't fall asleep tonight, so i imagined
you, night owl still awake, typing poems, and the way your fingers
must look on a keyboard.
you're like a dream to me, black, blurred around the edges, forgettable but i
want to remember you.
i want to remember you.
i stayed up late tonight reading a poetry book.
i think you'd like it.
it's about kids like us.
the scale is a liar.
i wanted to write you a letter, but i couldn't think of anything worth
saying, so i watched the birds and practiced my calls instead.
do i sound like a bird yet? i feel
it rained today. i
thought you should know that.
my joints are familiar with words i don't
think joints should know.
my hands won't stop shaking.
i read once that cold hands are the first
sign of silent dissent; i think mine look like flow