There was a time before this nothingness,
back when our days were short but our
summers were long, sunsets were
glazed orange on the backs
of our palms, skinned knees
meant bravery and grass stains
were the fashion statement. Love didn’t exist
outside of mommy and daddy and

sometimes, the stories of princesses with their
happily ever after, and
heartache wasn’t a word, much less
something everyone carried
on a string around their
necks, close to the organ which
it was bound to.

Nights spent beneath
powdery skies were meant
for dreaming about tomorrow’s
possibilities, not weeping and hoping
that orbs of light millions of
miles away would mend the
expanding hole in your chest.

We didn’t invent this
trembling feeling behind our knees but
when we started noticing
it clinging to our bones
like a sickness, we either figured
someone would come
and fix it like mommy and daddy used
to or there was nothing to be done
about it at all.

(Maybe that’s where we
went wrong.)