Pomp & Circumstance

A letter to myself the night before graduating high school:

Tomorrow you will walk
to a hand-bottled brew
of pomp and wayward circumstances
you will walk
in loving memory of
all the nights that confetti never fell
you will walk
with bloody knuckles
holding a fist full of dried-up daisies
you will tuck them behind your ears
and remember how you taught yourself
to sing back into the sky
each time that its tiles
fell crashing into the sidewalk
you will walk
for all of the nights that you spent
floating naked on your back
in a river of blue paint
taking color-coded notes
on who the current was pulling you towards
tomorrow you will walk
knowing that this is all a dance
that it’s only requirements
are to wear shoes that fit right
to hold all of your abandon in your pockets
and to let the sun spend the night in your chest
if it passes out on the couch

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