It started as a song

But I’ve lost the melody.

Sitting at the grown up table,

_Is_ anyone stable?

I talked with the faces

Washed my hands with the broken flowers vases.

Sat with strangers on those stone-hard benches

Followed His tears in those life-worn trenches,

No one really wants to see over their neighbors fences.

Well

The absence of warmth. That’s how I’d describe it. The echo and the would’ve

Chains of can’t

Suffocating sonder.

Sorrow nested in your arteries

It throbs with your pulse and floods to corners of your skull in vain.

The oxymoron of wanting to unknow knowledge

How am I going to survive college?

Is it selfish that losing feels like freedom?

Stubborn or stuck,

Is there really a difference?

**_It’s not really the answers that define us;

It’s the questions._**

It snowed the first day of April.

I thought it was a joke.

The cold hitting me later and latter

Up I climb trying to see good intentions

Watching the leaves leave as I fall

Shoulders straight but everything’s crooked.

Is this what it’s supposed to be,

Sitting, waiting, wishing at

The growing up table?