these days, idk whether to continue collecting my wants and memories and dreams, rather than closing my eyes to some lesser regrets. without wanting leaves barely enough room to remember. so, perhaps i'd rather not know.
idk if i should keep chasing the stars or picking them apart. after all my longest fears have always derived from the dark, and just maybe fear fades within its final riptide. and mine.
without love. without the earth of water. i can hardly detect their worth and my own. in the end, perhaps i won't need them.
i'm lacking of much.
passing through mirrors and bearing what's left of the sunlight with a reflection that frightens me. though, i'd only just begun to love her back. i can't help asking of you, "how could you do it?"
unafraid of dying and sorry for crying, all the while pretending i wouldn't want much of this world, anyways.
in all truth, i want the love you'd breathe within my one true. breathing my daughters of you and them and our cities, coloring within the lines of her with the shades of mine.
for more of it i've promised to push away my bitterness, though it would crack with time, that couldn't possibly be mine.
i can't promise to not miss them, even less feel myself break wanting to hold her tightly in my arms.
to the moon of my light—i'm sorry for this body, and how its withering agendas predicts all of your own. i'm sorry for communicating with your father in morse code and dreams, and memories that likely will never be. i'm sorry for everything.
