In the summer I told you that a poem was a sentence gone to sleep — one that’s having good dreams. I told you that I knew the truth about birds, and about how the sun always set the ocean on fire. Something to do with the salt. I pushed my hair off my shoulder, it was much longer then, and let it serve as a curtain between the living and dead. You see, I used to carry my ghosts around with me. I needed the privacy.
I thought love would knock the ice from my bones. I thought they were tree branches. Thought they’d bloom cherry blossoms. Even though I held my chin to the world, I was still soft enough to think such things. To look at my hands and pray for a break, a fracture that wasn’t clean, so even when I was alone I’d still wear the crack from where I let hope go.
It’s funny how much can change. How much of it is thought. How much of it we control. We grow and we keep growing. We rot sometimes. Grow again. Trim back the dying. Let the ice linger. I awoke in Spring, and found my frost kept giving — kept cooling, kept relieving — not one bruise stayed because of it; the press of it; the true.
Sometimes the best parts come from the worst places inside of you.