brown grass feels like disappearing acts (she left, she’s gone, buried beneath) i miss the way she painted the sun (do i see her in it sometimes? maybe, but i wonder if she’s stars instead) i fractured my index finger (i was trying to dig her up, find the bones of a girl who ran like whispers) i gave her my constellations (i hope she still sees them, counts the fireflies, and tells them to come home) the earth swallows her (she’s stuck in its throat, i can’t let her slide all the way down) i am wilted (there is a hole where the moon fits, she lives on it, in it, in me).
