a sunset photo
in the family group chat
can seem like a
“by the way,”
something tossed aside,
clothes strewn
on the bed—
as if she didn’t
find a piece of beauty,
and say, “here”—
“thought of you.”
as if it isn’t
mom’s okayness
thrown over a chair.
-
the tip of my finger
grazes that world.
I want to know it.
I want to know its warmth.
I want to know the way
the Sun feels in that land—
if it kisses the skin more gently.
I want to know
what cherry blossoms,
what milk, what honey
abound.
I want not this cold exile.
but, if I should not be welcome,
I would beg:
let me not know of it.
let me forget I’d ever seen it.
for this
can only be hell
if i know
heaven exists.
-
the scariest thing
isn’t that I want you—
it’s how.
what scares me
isn’t something that burns—
but something
that drowns.
what scares me
is where Eden lies:
less
in fits of passion.
more
in moments
of tenderness.
this,
this is what scares me.
-
I’ve seen
the pixelated mirror
up close,
the reflection
that is not a reflection.
I’ve sat at the edge,
gazed
into the abyss,
wondering
if this little light
will be swallowed
in the night.
I’ve shouted
into the future.
I wish I could tell you
it has an echo.
I wish I could tell you
it shouted something back.
instead,
the feet of a generation
dangle
from the edge.
we throw rocks—
we count the seconds.
we hold our breath.
we wait
for an answer.