remember when i held you close to my chest, peek down to see
the typography of what was my dream and i would gently whisper,
"new york fashion week," but could never finish the sentence
for fear losing, before you were even realized. my first course catalog
is a friendly neighbor to some of my favorite anthologies and et al's,
all aspirations of this and that, in what has been a busy and lonely
attempt at expression, it sits gently; similar to the feeling you get
as your grandma is dying and the need to let go of her tangibly hurts
more than the sound of her voice because it hasn't hit you yet that
it is over.