hair tumbled

eyes tangled 

reaching for your words

like they'll sing the same as they did in october

graduation is a pretty way to phrase goodbyes

and I'm terribly sorry that it's all we write about,

but most people tend to fade into the sheets

as they unravel.

I was never well acquainted 

with handling endings with care.

And I never appreciated the grey of not-knowing.

(or beginnings)

so I watched the middle child as she 

grew and

slept and

fought me.

(her name is ava)

because the fact of the matter is,

I was always first,

but she was always kinder.

and she's never had her own october.

you were sixteen

couldn't breathe

back porch, 73 degree beauty.

ratted hair

ankle socks

5'6' with a decade worth of plans

and a high school career worth of empty gas tanks.

no blonde ponytail in cut off denim

no fly-by, goodbye, long night eyes

watching weekends tumble by like the Atlantic.

And I thanked her, politely.

They were blue and green.

Blue words like her lips used to be.

Green words like everything she sees.

Like everything she sees.

Like everything she sees.

Like she's new and March is the only thing she sees.

Like March at last can breathe and white hair is made of ashes.

Like February 27th turned her hands to matches.

I will cut pieces from everything I see.

From everything I see.

From everything but skin,

For skin is made of numbers.

Numbers red like July like

Grateful.

Grateful.

All I feel is irreverent.

All I feel is the static on your end of the line

And the weight of my own voice in your hand.

Both of us entirely too grateful.

Like a six minute silent phone call is everything and nothing all at once and nothing is worth everything so long as someone else will appreciate the static with you.

And all at once

Like last years lyrics hadn't quite worn off yet.

She wore her collar like her pride,

And her keyring like an anchor.

She was Chicago:

Wind-blown hair every weekday,

But Vegas on a Saturday.

(Not the strip, just the lights.)

Phoenix: never sure if the neighbors would be around come June,

But she's always been Colorado.

I saw her science and her shoulders.

I said, "we're coming back",

And I said that land-locked was never meant to be a tragedy.

I said that 

she was never meant to be a tragedy.

I said that

And bonfires

And the extra eight miles

And good bread, the kind with gluten in it.

And people, as a general rule.

But she wouldn't know,

Because Phoenix never knows if the neighbors are home.

(And I really and truly liked them all)

But I wish my words carried half as much weight as theirs.