framed

There’s a photograph in my hallway
and it reminds me that I was the one
to carry you to london, sweaty and steadfast,
and stand in front of sunflowers.
The dream I had promised you through
nine months of placenta and stretch marks,
every time it was too loud on my side.
I would sing to you, that you are my sunshine,
and tell you about small suns you can
hold in your fists. About a man half mad
with difference, and a time we could
stand together, and see.

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