For Emma / by McKenzie Roers

Sometimes,

the morning drive

carries a windshield 

full of misplaced thoughts

Maybe I was not kind enough 

to you

or to myself

Sometimes,

my mind is riddled

with the replay of memories

in the attempts of

cutting them free

from the weight of burden. 

Maybe in the fainting years

they will flee,

you and I,

like the ash from a wildfire.