so long to the wreckage I won't hide it if it's wrong. someday we'll be lions, we'll be dancing as before.

It feels a little dangerous, doesn’t it, like wanting to leave bits of yourself in the places you love, in rain, in the hollow of a collarbone, space.

Spaces in our bodies for the colors of love, of blues and greens and golden-hued miracles at every expanse, tethered down and palpable

Here is the root of all expectation, lined out from A to Z, finding ways to hollow you out.

There are spaces in words and blank letters to be filled, to be written, to be yelled across valleys and oceans, and maybe you will be endless.

Here’s what they never told you, never explained to you in the things among the lessons - you will not find it in your father’s palms, floating or hovering in the space between infinity or the dusty lid of a piano.

It pools in your stomach, inky, smelling of bittersweet