heart on fire
burn my fingertips dry
crusted skin
until fingerprints
fall behind

tell me
how are we
identified

these windows we call eyes
lined with speckled bits of life floating through air
scintilla
slits we call blinds hiding light some can’t see
black beams
say you probably shouldn’t
clear panes taunt scenery
of stationary engines
charging potential
hearts fueled on travel

black beams
say you probably shouldn’t

Sometimes, we forget. We forget about all the little things we still have to see and the places we swore we’d travel to and the hearts we promised to find and keep. We forget that there’s a continuation and sometimes, even the next morning seems too far away. We lay in our beds—bodies smothered in sheets, reminders of when mother used to tuck in and whisper— sweet dreams, sweet dreams

sweet dreams.

It’s one of the strangest feelings, awakening in a daze and wanting nothing but to sink and sink,

when at one point we struggled to stay afloat in the midst of all the dreams.