i prognosticate that my shortcomings will lead to our demise
will my love forever be imprecise?
you are my temple, my shrine
and i pray to be small, benign,
unimposing
yet still enough to keep you wanting
me
me
me

want me
need me
love me
as i overflow

i think of the tear in my skirt
and how its threads strayed,
unkempt. how i never learned
to sew because my grandma
always put everything back
together. how much i missed her
that day. how a small tear really meant
nothing in the grand scheme of things
because the skirt was still beautiful, and
maybe i no longer need
lola's help, and maybe things
were more beautiful when they were
fraying. but fraying
is too beautiful a word for
brokenness: i picture a burning blaze
of threadbare strength, carrying on.