silence as I watch you stare
out the open window
of the wooden
playhouse – eyes like
chasms recoiling within
themselves – on a
day that should have
been all yours;
picture-perfect
and fireworks-worthy,
with hugs that drew you
deeper inward,
not feet retreating away
as quickly
as they came.

the bus lurches underneath
us in the pause that follows
after you said
that you
were unwanted,
after you said you would
still find a way to release
your loved one
from the coiling web
of harm and trauma
that unearths the roots
of your family tree;
you lay your head on my
shoulder for a few seconds
like those words with all their
weight
meant nothing at all.

you laugh about
unexpected free
periods in school –
talking lightly about
moving north,
spending your savings
to find what disappeared,
watching innocence
wilt before your eyes.
you say that there
are people
in the world
worse than you,
and I know you
have seen them
face-to-face.

you say that you
got lost in the years
between our last
parting and now,
moving around with
the echoes of
this place full of people
who failed you;
found a home
and watched it drift
away;
your leg shakes and
you ask if this is all
that is left
now.

you – with
all that you are
and could have been
and can still be –
should never
have had to
carry
the weight
of the world
at 14,
15,
19
21 years old.