I write like my father,
but I prefer the way my mother writes.

Mine is always going somewhere
taking me across the page.

The skipping in these spaces
a time stuck in time
Like this we speak in between dreams
You wake up just in time to hear me
calling for you yesterday

The next day you danced to a song called porcelain
and the sunlight came into the living rooms
to watch a child laugh
you taught me this was how
to free a spirit