I still fall in love with the strangers that I see.
It lasts approximately 3 minutes each time.
I let the water scald me when I get home.
My toes stay permanently cold.
I like them better that way.
I still believe there’s something in everyone that can make them cry
and that you carved yours into your ankle when you were six.
After 38 minutes in the summer sun,
my skin will turn the same red as your dreams
and stick around for another week.
My mother once sang to me in French a song her mom taught her;
a piano resting in the garage for years.
I let my voice get heard sometimes,
but mostly it still cracks under the weight of the waves I’m not bearing:
I’m not drowning if they’re not there.