This poem is for you, hurting; for you, laughing; for you, forgot. For the bitter asphalt. For the old green of faded Easter grass and the new green of a cold clear day. For the ceaselessness of ceiling fans. For missed chances and weak coffee. This is the poem of a thousand crumbled stars, a thousand sweaty fingers. Of mascara on the pillowcase. Of the words to old songs you never knew. Of the heron-walkers. Of brick pores and blown dandelions and denim. It is the crack of old skin, the give of bone, side-eyed and river-wound, wounded. The story told in cut wood, the stain left by a Sunday mug. This is why we cry out of nowhere, light candles to Saint Jude, dance in living rooms by the flatscreen glow, lie awake in our darks, text drunk, forgive. Why we bottom up, why we jump, why we drown. This is why we breathe, why we keep breathing. This is breath. This is April.