Early Sun Run

I'm returning with September holding my left hand. Running into this same house that's held a door-bulging emptiness since I last opened it. You smell like the warmest light and my Christmas stocking and you sound a lot like my sister's sobbing bed, the winter I learned the meaning of the word, "matchstick." You feel like newness with an old soul and like nostalgia shaking hands with someone it has never met

but still

speaks into the morning with the crackle of sacrificed branches

cherry wine settling into the back of my cheek.

You decided to stay for breakfast when breakfast was messy and really sad and slow to prepare and I

had just finished watching the sudsy fear of feelings drain down the sink, slither through the piping and by the time it had emptied into our ocean, we were wiping our mouths, already readying for bed!

You flow into me and you remind me that I love the wind and it's effectiveness to lead to passive afternoons.

This has all become mine again

cold coffee warms my hands while I drive full speed into your everything, every night, every three o'clock in the afternoon, every sunrise, every glass of things fun and of just water, we will now announce this broken butterfly-like epiphany by promising,

"cheers, to the shit that is suddenly good."