I am
the white part of a road,
a hyphen on the page. I am guilt,
or the time you said something about finding
sunbathing boring and reading in the sun warps book pages anyway.
I am a tear through a made-up face.
I am where the line of night meets the sun,
harsh and noticeable.
But once, I was a thought,
a solution. I was the crying in the part of the month
where you aren’ t supposed to be. I was the comment
about not knowing what to do when you’ re like this.
Other things; letting the hours slip
is fine when you have something to show for it.
I never did.
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