I bought rose-colored glasses yesterday.
Today, I gaze out from the tops of cellophane pink plastic
and there is a certain newness to the world,
a filter of optimism.
The clouds are pink. Puffy, cumulus pink.
Today is the first day that feels like spring.
Fake winter is over. Fake glasses are in.
I watch birds fly in pink.
I watch my hometown pass before my eyes in pink.
I fear death in pink.
I laugh louder in pink.
I watch you laugh (in my head) in pink.
I love you forever in pink,
I think.

I bought rose-colored glasses yesterday.
A cliche.
A stupid idiom.
Two frames of soft blush
to see my heart in truth.
I’m never leaving you in pink.
I’m still waiting for you in pink.
This world is still ours,
still blushing alive,
in time
in love
in pink.


I am enchanted by the aftermath
much more than the miracle.

A park bench still warm,
lips chapped by desire,
the soundless space that fills
the moment after the door slams.

I am enamored
of muddy footprints,
a room echoing after applause,
when the crowd finally sits
after the big ovation.

The world is so much
of everything
but it is anything
but loveless.
For love sleeps in the shadows
of a decaying moment,
bringing us back to life.


Wake up.
You are seventeen years old
and the world is yours.
You dye your hair fluorescent red, basking
in the sweet sting of controversy.
You are a self-proclaimed master
of playing the Catholic girl,
mumbling prayers that get lost
between the spaces of rosary beads.
A wise sage trapped within a young frame;
you think you know everything about love
as if you invented it yourself,
you and your whimsy little heart.
You convince yourself you created it, as if you
were the one who wrote its definition
into existence.

I wanted to be your gospel.

Go to sleep.
You are eighteen now.
You know nothing.
This is the subtle joy of insignificance,
that hair is just hair, no matter how it is colored.
That God cannot be Man, because Man is imperfect,
and Man leaves without warning, in the pitch black
silence of the darkest hour, and what kind of cruel God
would leave without waking you up first?

I wanted to be your gospel.

But even after memorizing every dictionary,
every dusted-over Bible parable,
I cannot spell love without you,
can no longer sound out the words
or recall the stories.
I cannot believe in salvation
without my Word,
my Verse,
my favorite
forgotten prayer.


I want you to be honest with me.
Do you see a future where we end up together again,
the way we were, the way we used to be?
Yes. So much yes.
Do you really?
I do. I am careful not to mold my entire life around
something as fleeting as possibility. I don’t
want my heart to be defined by its brokenness anymore.
But yes, I do. I see it so clearly. Somehow, my soul knows
it is you– it will always be you.
At least, it hopes so. I hope so.
My goodness. That’s a relief.
Why? What do you see?
The same. Unbelievably the same.
Sometimes I talk to you, and I wonder if you can hear me.
It’s a bit crazy, you know, conversing with the wind.
Like I’m talking to God.
Like, “Hi, it’s me. Are you happy? Are you listening?”
I’m always listening.
But do you ever hear me?
I do now. I think I always have,
even when I didn’t want to listen.