Fifty. The day I needed forgiveness and how the grieving process is put into motion.

In a dream,
I was on a train to Boston
and I had forgotten my luggage.
There was a vertical rock wall that felt
safe, and then I was flying
over rooftops and trees,
scared that nothing was holding
my body.

What don't I have enough of?
I don't have enough of my hands
held behind my head,
I don't have enough
dogwood blossoms or cowboy songs,
I don't have
enough restful sleep sessions or
the pleasant sort of confessions.
I don't even own
a passport.

I am sorry
for many of the things that I am,
more sorry for the things
that I am not.
I get panicky
when my phone doesn't ring
by eleven-thirty, and I don't know
how to stare back.
I have too many rough edges,
bones jutting out,
I can't wear the color yellow
and I miss you
all of the time.