from a stool, morning is becoming night

i slumped

when i saw the satisfaction you took in skipping ahead of the sunrise

a surprise

it was ours

the glow

coming up, casting shadows with caution while carefully creating cascading columns, shafts of light to shelter the catatonic owls who squint themselves to sleep

you didn’t want to be there

alone and unaware of the depth my breath would have to travel in an effort to calm my loss

the losing of someone who celebrated our awakening

you see,

i need you

and it’s a lie they feed you that we’re suppose to find this thing by ourselves

that somehow strength is found in stretching our arms and eyes without you to spy so i can surpass the butterflies that crawl and flutter through bellyaching nights to an understanding of this thing

this life

this temptation to answer the question we’re born with

the exercise of pushing limits in search of hoping, accidentally, without hurting

we can find the truth

come back

from a fold out bed, be careful of pronouns

i zipped it shut and walked away

innocence trapped in a bag with my initials on it, an ode to a forgotten time when gifts were working to define how i’d view the world

it sits on the top shelf in my closet now

holding letters to mysterious creatures and old candy bar wrappers

i peak inside from time to time

inspiration for a way home

stuck inside, curiosities roam from peak to valley in midnight walks around a room built for two, or three, maybe four. there are enough doors, pick one you want to exit through

or, we could take them all off in fits of honesty and clear out the pretension that sits with knowing we’re somewhere they can’t be

they’ll always run free

because they get to treat the sounds that clatter from our room as little more than the raising of little ones to do our bidding when the mice shriek down the stairs they’ll be crushed by side-eyed stares and who cares if one of you light the flare it’ll only alert hyper-egos and selfish sun soaked children to look away while their loved ones are feasted on and carried to a place of infinite corners and steam shop loaners wandering into one another wondering if there is a way to grab that bag out of your closet

unzip it

and let the dreams of children fly through fanciful forgotten scenes of innocence

those are my initials though

it’s mine

that’s what they were trying to tell me

close that thing