Forty-eight. On recoveries.

Being adored
has not reminded me how to sing.
I could write for days
about the light in my chest
that struggles to meet yours,
flickering like fireflies
or boats wrapped in fog.

An old friend
will be traveling to California soon
and I'm convinced
that it will kill him.
What do you do when home dies?
What polarity becomes lost?

I promised you bicycles
when the streets began blooming.
It's almost time.
My tongue is a net
and my throat is not happy.
This could be a mess.
This could be a victory.

All I know is
my legs are cold and someone
has been rearranging the furniture.
All of this talk
about brightness.
It makes a person
feel misplaced.