a bowl of ocean: no bigger than
cupped palms; the same concave
as the deflated iris over
the sightless eye.

long before you cared, the lanterns
became beacons. i find myself
outside, moth-bitten, and
perfectly fine.

now, the sidewalk blossoms
purple & green with bruises
and the reminders of what could
have been. everywhere—reminders

of how tomorrow should have seemed:
a horizon of opaque clouds, darkened suns.
maybe there’s also a memory.
maybe there’s also a flicker of the forest

through the dark nebula of cityscape.
and maybe, this is all you’ll have.
tongues made of questions and
tongues made to choke on answers.

sunrises that forgot to encourage feeling,
dulled by the prospect of never again.
distances just close enough
that you will never reach them.

maybe, this is all you’ll ever have—
a road, a highway, burdened with direction.
but in all these dark things—strangled things—
you still see beyond, into

every-single-thing.