i read stories of kingfishers when we were little, when your palms were still small and lined with worries.
did you dream yourself into existing? was it small or did you try to convince yourself you were a sea?
did you grow like mushrooms, hacking yourself into the trunk of me? when you wear the ugly blouse that keeps you warm, digging fingers into the sands under your legs and smiling for my disposable camera, you grow into the quick of me. when you tape every ticket stub and receipt to your bathroom mirror (when you apply cheap shadow with your pinkie finger) the feeling crawls like the roots of a plant too big for her pot. you tell me my marks can be kissed into disappearance and i believe you wholeheartedly, i do not cry when i found out you lied to me. The birds chirp and the light glares, but all i can do is dream you into being again and pray very, very hard.
theres always something left to say.