Pretty just is.
It doesn’t need me.                                        

But the wreckage—
the split lip,
the broken glass,
the things no one frames—

they beg to be made into something.

I apologize for not writing
about the sun's first kiss,
about laughter that swells
like a song too sweet to forget.

I know the world needs the light—
but there's a stillness in the dark,
a itching, quiet that asks me to capture
what’s worn, what’s lost,
the parts that no one wants to remember.