I am from starlight
sparkling in a pitch-black sky,
the only light in the darkness.
I am from sunlight
streaming through the windshield of my brother’s car,
bright light on grey dash, Converse propped up,
echoed by complaints of dirty shoes.
I am from the glow of my phone screen,
blue light illuminating my face.
It’s late but under thick blankets I can be whoever I want.
I am from the time capsule that I lost with time,
Tupperware wrapped in duct tape,
buried outside my house that I will never see again.
I am from the secrets shared under the cover of night
where only two little girls existed,
promises of forever resting on small lips
that would never see fruition.
I am from the tea my grandmother used to make,
small peach teacups held in frail hands,
little kids captivated by tales of old
whilst sipping jasmine.
I am from the porch swing outside her home.
It sits bathed in sunlight,
and fall leaves,
and thick snow,
abandoned and aching
for the familiar feel of a family it no longer has.
I am from the song my best friend sang when I fell in love with her,
blonde hair and black dresses,
storm grey eyes filled with emotion.
She may not know it,
but a field of barley will never look the same to me again.
I am from every “I’m fine” or “it’s okay” I’ve ever uttered,
lies that fall as easy as the breath from my lips.
I am from empty picture frames,
and burned houses,
and sentences without a period.
I am from tears splattered on book pages,
bleary eyes at season finales,
balled fists at end credits.
I’ve never liked endings; they feel too much like goodbye.
I am from excited chatter about nothing,
crossed fingers
and lost rings.
I am from rumpled blankets,
from unmade beds and messy rooms,
from curtains drawn so tightly nothing can get in.
But above all else?
I am an old notebook,
pages tea-stained,
edges frayed,
black messy scrawl covering page to page,
the whole thing filled with unintelligible writing,
biblichor rising to fill your nostrils.
The cover is rough worn leather,
the pages crinkle in protest when you turn them.
This book is an artifact of a person long dead.
But there is a fresh one sitting next to it,
soft brown leather,
blank pages holding promise,
potential.
The first page is blank,
and when my pen meets it,
someone new emerges from the ink.