Don’t sit. Please, sometimes, hope.

Don’t come (home)

Sit in pews of steeple’d fingers
intertwined
what you’d always imagined
would be:
ringed and rigid
latticed and lonely
mired, masked.

Please, remember your mother’s maiden name
and

Sometimes, desperately want your happiness
across desolated plains of missing and
blow away the caps and umbrellas
doubting it.

Hope, the stillness in the air isn’t a sign
your shoe is filling up with blood.

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