When I was six,
I crafted a heart from glue and loose glitter
on a morning, too far gone from now.
At an age, where a cow
jumped over the moon
and sung of spoons I had yet to bend
on plates, fated to be shattered by falling stars.
Dear six-year-old me,
trapped between the blank slate and the final stare,
don’t pay that blue much mind.
When you find
paper-thin parchment just so easily tears,
my prayer is that you’ll use that same-colored crayon
to construct a kaleidoscope
based on the wonder you’ve been told
and the colors you have yet to see.
Today, my heart broke,
which is to say for you,
it is just beating.
May this glue be your assurance that some things stick
despite the years
and wear on the hands that press red into the folds.