If you see her, tell her it doesn’t snow in Colorado.
Tell her all this stuff falling from the sky is just sawdust from the stilts I’ve been carving for my short temper. Tell her there’s a tambourine in my chest, and yes, she still shakes me. Too bad love is an Etch-a-Sketch, good thing love is an Etch-a-Sketch.
If you see her, tell her I’ve been running towards my life like Laura Ingalls running down that hill in her flowered dress, I wore a flowered dress to my birthday boy party.
Don’t look at me like that.
I’m not the box the gift came in.
This heart is my Sunday best, grass stained from the day I discovered her neck tasted like the reed of my first saxophone. If I could still play, I’d play the softest song, a moth in the lamplight, a snowglobe turning upside-down, Michelle Obama buttoning her husband’s bulletproof vest.
We are all fragile, and fraying
Praying we can hold the tire swing through summer.
My mood swings with its feet dangling in the river, so when my sadness reaches the ocean it turns to salt
If you see her, tell her the moon is all her fault.
Love; a trapdoor of light - even when it’s gone, it’s somewhere.
Tonight, I buried her time capsule in the ball field, for every time running for home meant running towards her - next time, I will know to listen when the umpire tells me I’m safe.
Next time, I will know it’s normal to have a hard time breathing when you shake the dust.
We make everything so complicated.
Sometimes, the message in the bottle is
‘Don’t drink so much - there’s too much Novocaine in our wisdom teeth already’.
Every window begs to be open when the storm comes. I dig seed holes in my pillow and dream of clock towers whistling at lightning, this upside-down umbrella is a teacup for God.
The puddles in my eyes are monuments of grief crumbling beneath moss.
You can spend your whole life wearing a life vest in the desert; it took me so long to burn those fire escapes, but I know neither of us are the felonies on our record players. I know the music we were trying to make.
Every one of us is a Mack truck with a soft bed inside.
I’ve got my thumb out on the highway, and I know she doesn’t drive this way.
If you see her, tell her I made a song from the dial tone. I made a papier-mâché glider plane from our unfinished poem.
Take the elevator to the parking garage rooftop, take a cigar box full of feather pens and write what you see.
The bassinet of my mouth unfurling its ribbons to raise my voice honest, honestly.
She was an anthem.
I was a stadium of patriots with their hands on their hearts.
Honestly, my hand is still on my heart as the fireworks announce the end of the game, and the colours in the sky chase the birds inside.
Have you seen the nest they are building from everything we left behind?