yejunee

maybe there's a home after this. 

maybe, after the war, after the anger, after all these days of endless exhaustion, 
there will be a peace waiting for me 
somewhere i can rest 

what did our ancestors think during a thunderstorm? 

You are dreaming. 

You are dreaming, and isn't that wonderful? Isn't that infinite? 

Impossibilities have happened over and over again; 
they must have, because despite everything, 
we exist. 

Do you remember when we could fly? 

We dreamed of it, frostbitten skies and winged laughter, 
and we'd jump off the swings for that one moment 
suspended 
in the air. 

Birds of a feather flock together, the grown-ups say, 
but they don't say why. 
Like seeks like, of course, 
we are less likely to be hurt by those who understand.  

watercolor ghosts, blurring the edges, 
like taking off your glasses in the morning. 
will you stay this time? 

here, hold my hand. 
it's warm.