WRITTEN IN SUNLIGHT

Picnic baskets and blankets

soaked in the sun of days

that told us they’d never end

What makes me who I am is how I’ll never really know who that is

And I wish I could hate wonderment with no expiration

instead of loving questions

loud above the finality in made-up answers

They say that if I were a color, I’d be a ray of the sun that beams down on us now

yellow in your palm

even though my skin turns raw when the rain refrains

from beckoning me

But I am as desperately teal as the letters

I have torn apart

I am as solemnly indigo as the poems I have homed

and then closed the door on

Open the book and I’ll tell you my favorite page but it’s up to you how much you read

I remain written anyways

Pick up a pen

let the ink spill blue and red like mine on pages that know me

for denial and for hatred

that only ever needed reassurance

to become love