The golden hour demands I surrender
my copperplate, inscribed:
my debts, a reminder that I am a house
in constant need of shelter.
Among many things you’ll find in me:
paper clips, staple wires, pen and paper,
a 12-track playlist, a cigarette butt,
smooth river stones, waterfall sounds,
stairs without rails, the inner extrovert
hiding in every introvert.
Quirks begin in the attic, seeping down.
Here, foreign uncertainty is unwelcome.
I chase the sun on the way to your house,
found in miscalculation. I think
we should break up, I say as though
a law is threatened to cease.
The road is an undesirable instrument
when we are in the belly of the beat
of our breaths. A destination to
a sad song is born, and you are lost
in the truth of my words.
We could blame the wind
for this awkward pause,
but who’s to say
where the dust gets blown away?
Girl, you are the love that slipped
from my hands, for even in denial,
I was meant to fish in the male pond.
I have chased the sun
but it remains out of reach.
So until then,
it is time to go home and listen
to the glow of the moon
touching my skin.