to miss what doesn’t want to be missed / a sentencing without pauses or periods / some call it a run-on / I call it life / this wasn’t an accident / people aren’t sent on accident / it would be easy to cast them off as glitches / spasms / whispers in time / but for us / the overthinkers / the ones who name our scars after flowers / the ones who romanticize romance before its even begun / we lose ourselves in the garden of our memories / we rest our tears on our depression / our poetry / hanging on by paste made of wheat / stained from ends of cigarettes / I don’t know what to call those who cause us pain anymore / those who shut their ears to the beat of the truth / those who bestow violence on vulnerabilities / those who take our tongues / rip them from our mouths / and return in the shape of a noose / but our garden has purpose / as there is purpose in pain / in missing / it is not simply the connection / but in the connection we found with ourselves through the mist / in missing / it is not them we miss / but us / in ways no one had ever shown us before.
- San Marino, CA
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