today i sat on a swing
and wrapped my hands
around the brown chains,
rusted like old pennies
pressed into a child's hand,
a single cent worth thousands.

it made me want to be
six years old again,
dipping my shoes into mulch
like bare feet into the ocean,
tattered tennis shoes beating
the ground for all its worth,
palms burning from hot metal,
knees stinging from purple bruises.

i want half-hour friendships
and pinky promises under trees,
i want...

i sit on the rooftop alone,
and as the black night drips into the city
like ink, i consider myself the poet
and whisper your name into the stars,
as if the constellations will etch them there
for you to see when you drive home.

if the stars don't shine bright enough,
i hope the moon overhears,
and calls on the crashing waves
to wash it up on the shore.
i hope you don't mistake it for trash.
i hope...