Young Writers Society

Roof of cold air
supported by
a row of coffee cans,
the lamplight gleam
paints the metal pillars
up and down
all around.

i wonder why leaves are most beautiful,
right before they fall -
when the air is sharp with the promise of change
and everything is flashing gold and deep red and crisp
and everything is achingly temporary -

is it part of life's perfect design
that we are made with creases on our hands
and hollowed lungs and ears and mouths
like we are born wounded-incomplete and wanting -

is it strange or sweet that grief,
always seems to clutch love's hand
a little too tight.

if we were to divide the world into a half so we both can cope with our separated souls, what would you want? the city we lived in for five years, the town we stopped by one night where we whispered our secrets, or the library where our eyes crossed over our favorite novel and we met.

if that is not enough for you, must i give you my favorite memories? you can keep the pictures, of you meeting a stray cat and your eyes twinkle in the sunlight, the fountain we fell into and were soaked in water but were in love, or when we asked a stranger to photograph us only to realize we had been smiling so wide looking at each other.

don't think i don't follow what you say now, what you post, who you write, like we were not the ones sitting on the same chair together and drawing the same breath. we are not the same people we were then, comparing the sun to each other's eyes, reading romantic poetry lines to start our morning alongside cups of tea, falling asleep lying next to each other on our old couch.

i miss you. do you miss me?

A red, purple, orange scramble,
springtime cuffing the street with one hand,
as the sun slides past the apartments.

I am dandelion fuzz
because I am allowed to be
and he collects my tears in a small teal bowl.

Drops full of cortisol
turn into fertilizer
and the most beautiful weed
has taken shape in my body

i am floating ice
intricate water crystals
i melt and die, rain