our fingers fly across black and white keys like
sparrows / rhythms of muscle memory echoing
across the table tops // inside, you are wells of blue
deeper than the Mariana Trench / clouded over
with gray brushstrokes where smears of lavender
used to be / and a burning star once glowed / the
distance between us is fraught with fault lines //
where we once found patches of sunlight to curl
up in / we spilled creativity like overturned vases /
your voice gliding through the air, clear and pure
/ mine hidden in stacks of manuscripts / both of
us scattering lilacs across the floor / I would trace
your pen strokes, heart lifting / you would trace
constellations on my skin // the patchwork of your
soul grows frayed and threadbare / puzzle pieces
forced together and weighted with expectation /
stitches rewritten with a violent fist / when braiding
violet flowers into your hair fit so much better —

But the day you take flight with Icarus’ wings /
the day you kiss the sun // I’ll look to the ground /
waiting for lavender to bloom.