I know the house you grew up in isn’t far from here. I don’t go there because I know it’s filled with ghosts. I write about you a lot and you don’t even know it. It’s hard sometimes. To say things I know you’ll never hear. I know a lot of things. Like how to break a fence so that you can sneak into someone else’s pool. I know how to put it back together again quickly when it’s almost dawn and their porch lights just flickered on. I know how to pull the tail off a crawfish just right. I know that venus is the brightest planet in the sky. I know some things first hand. That the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. That sometimes you make wishes on people like they’re lost stars. How you find yourself alone at night starting to hope that when they finally fall to the earth you can collect them in the ruffles of your skirt. But sometimes they burn out before they even get that close.
