Rowan

they say your home
is your temple

sitting in her room
must be religious

dark and dusty
cluttered my slow breathing

lights dancing
swirling at tiny moments of the day

only importance
hidden under her bed

all that you know
blue eyes only know

half open closet doors
unkept clothes
sleeves and buttons reaching out

boxes and paintbrushes
art is her thoughts

notebooks of black
piles of hope growing worn
overlooked

sharpies and nick-nacks
tears and lit candles

realizing distance
is not something i can handle