Goodbye Blue Sky
I'm sitting down at the curb. Feet turned in.
Scraped and lumpy knees bumping against one another.
Shirt soaked from wiping tingling eyes and soggy nose.
A clammy hand desperately held tight to my calf and
Nails digging into my skin, digging to draw blood.
Eyes searching out.
Crawling out of their sockets to get a better look.
I took these pictures myself so why was it so hard
To recreate the scene in my head?
I began frantically swiping through photos
—Old and new—
Hoping to spark a feeling of
Connection to these memories. But the
Peering up from the screen—taunting me!—were strangers.
I know these moments happened.
But they were now stale. Alien.
Snatched away with the kick of the chair.
Sirens as exit music.
It's been replayed: backward, forwards—in and out.
Yet, outcome unchanged.
When people ask, I'm still 15.
There was no "Happy Birthday."
Everyone said something else, to someone else: