I am puzzles on the kitchen table, I am flowers blooming

let go

I am an amalgamation of dissonance and perfect fifths

My grandmother fills mahogany halls with a kaleidoscope of stained glass shards

She fills my glass with grape juice, thanks God for what beautiful things she's seen

She tells me about books she read in girlhood, about love letters and first kisses and the small moments you left behind

I'd like my feet to hang off cliffs and to hold my hands in my socks

to become the nothingness standing in her way

This is called the art of accepting

That my eyes look like hers and I am burning all over

She tells me to become wiser with the way my blood flows, to taste the purple of my veins

to watch planes stand still, sleep in their wings when they aren't being used

She likes to be held by bodies of water

She is all light, but I want darkness

I am someone to be afraid of, screaming this stream of words until I am nothing but a beating heart

I dance into a new room like a butterfly bounding through chrysalis, quickly spreading my wings

afraid to take flight

Grandma and I spoke over chamomile tea and we laughed so hard that wood creaked beneath us

eager to join in on our sound

We laugh at fruit in the afternoons, stare at the cinnamon-sugar moon at night

I hope the water on her T-shirt keeps her cool

She tells me that if it were up to her, floating through this life would be so very

perfect