Today, the sun stumbles in, a drunk best friend,
spilling gold on floors we’ve swept with grief.
We laugh—loud, uncurated—let the sound
crash like pianos dropped from a rooftop.

You bring oranges peeled into coil-shaped suns,
I bring a vinyl scratch of Motown hymns.
The dog spins in circles, a furred hurricane,
as we dance in socks on the kitchen tiles.

Remember when joy felt a foreign dialect?
How we tongued its vowels like stones? Now
it bursts from us—dandelion spores, unplanned—
seeds the neighbor’s yard, the bus stop, the bank.

At the park, a toddler offers us her stick,
declares us knights of the swing-set realm.
We bow. For an hour, the world is that simple:
a castle built of mulch and monkey bars.

Evening arrives, a shy clerk closing shop,
but we’re still humming the day’s bright tax—
cheeks sore from grinning, feet blistered
from sprinting toward nothing but the light.

Let the cynics cluck. Let the night regroup.
We’ve memorized the script of surrender, too.
But today, we’re fluent in unbridled yes,
today, we’re drunk on the dare of dawn.

Pass the oranges. Cue the next track. Again,
again—this is how we practice resurrection:
letting joy, that feral creature we’ve starved,
lick honey straight from our open palms.