We were together this morning.

Our bodies wrapped in a cocoon,
light inside us, patient to grow
in the crossroads
of our dreams
and our alarms. 

Time passing through us:
Soft, weightless, still.
Present, transient, pure.
Those were the best moments of my life.
Then Ramona sat on my head.  

You got out of bed,
your silhouette
a brushstroke blurred.
Found footage of old memories.
And I say you’re beautiful.

I stared out of our new bedroom window and watched a cloud pass...
 

Does this cloud feel me?
If this cloud is carried by wind,
is it okay
with the direction of the universe?
 

Why do clouds always pass
to the sound of pianos?

 

Are clouds in love,
clouds together,
or one a part?

Can a cumulus cloud
and a nimbostratus cloud
feel
each other?

If one cloud decides
to become two
is it consensual?
 
 
What is your lifespan, cloud?
Where did you come from,
how long do you live,
and where will you go

to pass away?

 

I didn’t have my contacts in.

I thought of being alive as a child
and felt my first apartment in the city
but only in the summertime.
Light passing through tall windows,
painting warm boxes on the floor.

Shuffling feet on wood.
Eating cereal with my dad in the kitchen
asking me what I’d like to do today
not completely sure and smiling anyway.
My young mother,
dressed bright in the green of June.
My brother,
pooping on the floor.

We ran around the golf course,
cloves in our hand.
Sprouting seeds, feeling feelings.
Realizing,
normal isn’t us.

Playing house on the mountain,
with happy dogs,
blooming flowers, smoking weed.
Dancing,
with shadows of our past.

Costumed as grown ups,
in a big little city,
growing into trees, loving ourselves.
Learning,
what we were never taught.  

“This is not our sweater,”

“This is not our
sweater,”