My heart grows cold,
and I button a wool sweater.
I borrow the same one every time I go to my grandma’s house.
Every time I see you, I am on a walk under shifting palm trees
blowing in the evening wind.
I am seventeen again, and you are climbing in my window.
Then I am 21 and you are sneaking into my dorm room.
While I loved all of you
and wanted to know you,
I was just a temporary amusement
to you.
The meaning of life
may be fun and games
but I’m done playing.
In the morning, I wash my feet, put on clean shoes, and walk away—
from all of you.
I don’t like being self-reliant.
I don’t even know if it’s possible.
But I have been let down so many times.
Reality is a slow-burning candle and I have found a
Church that is graceless.
Grace
is my head softly nestled against your chest.
We worship at a golden sunrise
shimmering through dusty window panes.
Croissants bake nearby
and doves wake us up, slowly mourning.
Entangled in you,
with blankets of light increasing,
Love is not a resource.
When all that is really left
are people who
have to use each other
to be even vaguely okay,
Who can I rely on?