Another type of love—

I was a handful and

she had very small hands,

handing me love I

couldn’t handle and

it was no secret

we knew eachother’s secrets

quietly speaking through tears

and farewell in exchange

for another type of love—

one we both could afford.

his coat, blue velvet

There is a blue jay

on a branch, in the sun

through blinds I peer,

whether he sees me

or not, I look back to the screen

then back again, he’s gone

his coat, blue velvet

my memory, strong

though perched somewhere else

I whistle his song.