They Were Never Mine

They slept in a barn with more holes than roof,

dreams dripping down through moonlight like syrup in a rusted pan,

and I watched them the way a starving man watches fruit fall just out of reach,

not angry, not jealous, just hollow in a way that hums when the wind speaks your name wrong.

The lantern flickered like it didn’t trust itself to stay lit,

casting shadows that danced better than the boys ever did,

and the girl with the saddle for a pillow talked about escape

like it was a recipe she almost remembered; flour, blood, gravel, hope.

There was a mason jar of fireflies they called “God,”

and none of them believed it,

but they passed it around anyway,

as if light in a bottle might mean something when your hands are full of goodbye.

They laughed like broken clocks still ticking

and wore sorrow in their shoelaces,

tied tight so it wouldn't trip them again.

I never asked to stay,

but I never wanted to leave,

because loving people you can’t keep

is a kind of hunger too,

and I’ve been starving longer

than they’ve been breathing.