The sun was burning my scalp.
11 a.m. seemed near midnight...

"It's hard to speak my thoughts."
"But you're a writer", he said...

Lick cinnamon and sugar off fingertips,
finish off the weak pot of coffee...

There is more to this misery
Alive another day...

When you met me that Saturday morning,
it seemed the world was still drowsy...

Lately, I've done more writing than praying.
But maybe this ink could serve as a prayer...

I.
Once, I relayed my fear to you...

When we were side by side four months ago,
you mentioned that I needed to find another...

When did your stare become unconcerned, eyes hazy,
all the times I would make the commitment to do...

I'm sorry for disappointing you,
again. And how it's always that...

There is one who I worship,
when speech lacks promise...

Those antique nights you chose to hoist
me onto your shoulders, stepping on...