bouquets of flowers grow on my doorstep

too quickly to count the seconds between teddy bears 

and grown up prayers on sunday mornings but 

i tally them on the insides of my thighs.

warm apple pie and smores over campfires 

toss ashes at my bare feet as i walk across hot coals

to fall into your arms just one last time. don’t 

be afraid to come in, i promise, the 

bulletproof gates around my heart are 

only manned by my mother’s attempts 

to keep me alive a little longer. my scars 

leave prints in every place ive laid but

we pretend not to notice because the box 

under my bed holds forever which ive learnred is a 

word meant for memories not people. memories 

soaked into these objects, glowing pink with guilt as if 

their permanence caused you to dissapear. pink

like my bracelets, the names of each person 

ive loved woven into those frail little 

strings. pink like the carnations that grew in my 

backyard, bright like starlight through the storm that 

knocked down my old wooden fence. pink like

birthday cake, easter bunnies, or pink like the 

foam that showers cities when fires go 

dancing through treetops. pink like the tear stained 

cursive at the top of your program or pink like the 

ocean after i begged it to take me, for the waves to 

crash over my head and i promised i wouldnt try to 

float, until i remembered the day you taught me how to 

swim. the orbits of your words carve paths through 

my brain until it is empty, empty except for you, and 

i can no longer cry because the only thing that 

remains is your perfect pinkness. it entraps me, arms 

pulling wide across my stomach as my chest 

stutters to a stop and my hands can finally see what 

my eyes couldnt after my tears filled penny fountains and i 

opened my door to bouquets of roses but never 

chrysanthemums because those made your eyes well 

deeper than mine the day i tossed your necklace onto a bed of

daisies that will never grow back quite as green. i have to 

remind myself to stop remembering because my 

worries are only mine until i forget how my eyes 

refuse to close no matter how many times i 

play your same stupid song. i tiptoe through moonshine

to find your seaglass pummelled by tsunamis into 

smooth linen sheets and sunburned day dreams that fill 

refrigerator doorways with apple cider as your voice 

rings the dinner bell. all those sticky little fingers on 

windows and tiny graceless sneakers on patios pack 

bright red hot wheels into my box and with it your forever

is stolen from me over and over until my mother straps 

its sharp corners to my back and begs it to become 

my gravity until my love yous fly to the man in the moon 

and back to wrap a neat little bow 

around my heart and yours.