A day like today, a night in the day, my heart turns into itself to observe something harder.

Here I am, missing my love, missing my parents, missing what I am missing out on, missing that brighter word.

Across the weeks do I still remember, our arms interlocking and that sweet smile the older woman gifted us, when you sang to me along the October pavement.

I am learning—finally, only just—that my mind is not always a complicated creature, that it needs just what it needs: rest, silence, nourishment.

I know that I know that I write because I must.

Each passing day: a gift, a truth, a pain… a tear flowering the face.