By Kelly Grace Thomas


It’s been a coffee spoon minute and a night of exhaled memories

since I placed pen to paper without trying to please.

Since I’ve woken up without retracing each sentence,

holding my breath, bare feet on cold tile,

to see where my words will fall.

If a measured moon cycle egg times a habit,

I will wait until it is full.

Because I refuse to ever be half of anything.

Empty patios with last seasons leaves knock at my door,

remind me of my pieces,

I pretend no one is home.

Write postcards from my bed.

I would rather flirt with the nameless purple bloom of faith,

that dots purple sidewalks and makes the homeless smile. 

Summer run faster. I can almost feel you.

I sit in a kitchen with more books than plates.

Eating pineapple with my bare hand and thinking of all the

things I have tasted through this year where I decided to know myself.

Sitting in the stillness of bathtub water and floating words,

I have learned to spot the seasons.