I believed in you like the sun.
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.
I should have believed in you like air.
Always there, regardless.
That is how I suffocate now,
That is where you go with me,
The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.
The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air and sun are there.