supportive.

painted the window all the colors of my rainbow, left the ones that don’t matter;

first loves are hand-sewn disasters; bare hands can only collect so much glass after,

but my writer’s heart used fractured light from broken dreams to create poetry;

only shared with those who cherished worded cadavers, they’re a favored scarcity,

that’s when i found you, the silent collector of rewritten histories;

you made constellations out of my sharded stars; so easily,

it seems your praising me slowly rebuilt my fickle

dignity; so tell me, how’d you find me?

no, leave the heavens to assure me;

just note my love of receiving,

and the thank yous stumbling,

from my chapped audacity,

so utterly unbecoming;

yet, never

enough.