When I was little
my heart under my bed
and on Sundays I buried my dreams
in the sandbox and talked to the whistle
of the wind. In school, I’d write poems
onto paper airplanes. I threw them as far and wide
as I could because I was too nervous
to talk them into this world
- but they were sank into paper balls
by words such as ‘attention’ and ‘sir’.
By the time I’d grown up I’d dusted off
my heart that I’d hidden so long,
pulled it from the claws of monsters that hid
under my bed,
found the ‘X’ that marked the spot in the sandbox
and went chasing my breath
that I had lost in the wind.
On days when the world doesn’t have a friendly face,
to that man in the moon,
smiling, and shining,
and living up to his name.
The day I let you go
was the day I started yoga
but I couldn’t stretch anything well
except the truth.
The next day
I listened to the radio’s static
for 14 minutes and 32 seconds
because I thought I might hear your voice.
When I forgot the colour in your eyes
I bought every shade of blue paint from the shop.
You’ve been gone such a long,
long, long time.