April 1: Beginnings

Beginnings
are different now.
are different every time,
bruised by months and weeks,
the hues and scents slightly changed,
the weight of memory against twisted back
shaping the winding pathways and conversations,
the sunsets. the phone calls. the stargazing loneliness.
the secret tears that hang from the bed like icicles. the mosquitos.
the smiles I smile to the moon every summer, the quiet
disbelief at joy, the corners of my mouth lifting at
silly interludes, April darkness and memory
of white fog enveloping the long night.
singing songs of leaving home.
then songs of returning.
the things that
change.

And then the things that don't. The things that write themselves into
your skin, and always feel new, like discovering secrets in the sky.