In words, freedom.

He sat next to me on the bus tonight All alone,  Not yet nine. I saw the dirt under his fingernails I saw them, yours, And your eyelashes too. I see his eyes–– The impossible meeting of yours and mine. Algae on the lake, A pitted olive. He requested the stop, one before mine, The route written out for him In another’s hand. And I was so lucky to see him Get home safe.

substack

I never wrote a poem for you. I never pulled the stars down from heaven. I only looked at you and saw all I could not put into words. I only felt the guilt of all of this. Now there is no reason for me to do it– to take up the task of lines and rhymes. But I'm here, sitting on the right side of the bed, wearing your pyjama pants wishing the stars were out so I could tug at their limbs.