surely we are more

than flower buds on a tree branch,

awaiting the summer winds.

surely we soak

in the same sun-lit air,

surely it all looks the same

when we're withering

under blue-green grass.

it was lilac petals and

satin skin on porchlight nighttime butterfly bees,

but surely it's all more,

even if it's

never enough.

i see sparrows

with golden beaks

and selfish tongues

i see the lines in the sky

that they paint with their wings

sewn like thread

through clouds

black feet scattering

windtorn phrases

across my journal entries

tic-tac-toe scratches

in between the lines

i see bird bones and

feather ink

strewn across the sun

with their diamond eyes

and selfish tongues.

His face is a storm cloud. No warning, no chance to prepare myself. Just anger.

I grasp for answers, gathering my scattered thoughts as I consider whether or not to bolt, to run, to finally hear my footsteps rain down upon the stairs as I escape.

I stand still.

His screams thunder through my skull. Threats of violence, threats to leave. No threat can be worse than the one I aim at myself: to survive this or die trying.

My field of vision is limited to his face an inch from mine, full of angry gnashing teeth and a flood of spittle as he yells.

I swallow, willing myself to hold back the tears. They drop without permission, run down my cheeks and splash on the battered hardwood floor.

I shake, clamping my hands over my ears as if that will protect me. All it does is funnel his screams into concentrated echoes, penetrating deeper into my soul.

And then he's done. Spent. He stomps away to slam out of the house with a final curse tossed at me, the parting blow.

I breathe, remove my hands from my ears and stretch my aching arms.

I walk to the bathroom and undress. Hot water needles my skin, the spray too sharp against my bruises. But pain means I am alive. The shower is a habit, an ingrained reflex, a ritual after every fight.

As if I can wash this off.

when, once,

we spoke in the tongue

of the sun itself.

as the waves soaked

our pant legs,

shoulders dusted

in freckles and music notes.

when we, once,

stood on the edge of

the water and

drew

constellations in

the pliable air between us.

we wrote in

repetitions

about each other, just

because we could.

when, once,

we understood each other,

when

the sun and the air and the waves

were all

ours.