oh my soul wears long sleeves before August ends
and waits up for rustling, smiles when the wheel spins -
drinks instant, because it's available
loves Waxahatchee and when the sky turns purple
before black
before crickets become meteorologists,
loves aching days and sweet beverages.

oh my soul throws a pinch of bitters into everything it eats
and will always tear up at "Weary Memory" -
sings hymnals, because they cadence
hates salt, spoons, and how people can be flagrant
before kind
before they even open their eyes.

oh my soul thinks it's dying all the time
and will take 400mg of ibuprofen while wishing
it could curl into a quilt.
it's teething, it's pushing it's limits
gnawing on fingers and stripping the sheets.
the first six weeks is the hardest, they say
and things will grow dull, an itch just scratched
things will get easier
oh my soul