Youre not quite sure when
He became the sun to waken your marrowless bones.
You swore when you emptied
That night would cease the pain.
But your cup
It overflowth.
Liquid sunshine
Poured from his face as easy as u bled.
No youre not good with numbers
But 10 is a digit you learned to crunch
Time for.
No youre not good with your mouth
But staccato siliques fumbled fawn like from your quivering jowl
When he for the 13th time that practice reduced you to sputtering stutters
That he would never know were quiet prayers to his hair
His nose the way it crinkled
With his eyes
When he smiled
At you.
No youre not good with love
But youre good with your hands
And they are big and worn from
Carrying a universe burdened
Calloused to resist the flames you still try to grab
And red
From tossing
And tossing
And turning every night but they were good hands
And you think to yourself
If I can catch the universe
If I can catch the flames
If I can catch the ball
Maybe one day I too could catch the sun.”