my moms hands are my first memory of beauty, i could write entire stories about the way light spills into a room at 4pm in august, i never know what i want until i know what i don't want, how many times i have crossed a street when i could have stayed exactly where i was, do u remember the first time you swam in the ocean? i like the way u can smell the water before u see it, i got cut w a machete when i was 9 and two decades later i still have a scar, always thinking about sky above clouds, i reached inside and examined each piece looking for the source and found me