Like forgetting your headphones on a long journey,Like the holes between knitwear,Like water dripping between clenched fingers,Seeping like white t-shirts and bloodied wounds,This flower of red, blooms.And Memory forgets herself.

Or Planets

For his ninth birthday, grandmother had sent him a large wooden box filled with thick tubes of paint, a variety of horse hair brushes, and sheets of paper that felt rough to the touch. His mother complained about the impending mess and told her husband that the gift was far too advanced for a nine-year-old […]