sometimes,
when our home feels too big,
i would glance at the wall
between our bedrooms.
i would trace the faded
pencil markings where
we used to mark how tall
we've grown each year.
i would crane my neck
and imagine how tall you'd be
if you were home right now.
i would never say i miss you,
but the traces of you at home
makes this place a house
deprived of warmth.

i killed my succulent today.
its leaves swelled, mushed,
and lost its vibrant green hue.
its body began to separate,
and plop lifeless on my windowsill.
i never know when to stop giving.
i give and give too much.
i didn't allow my love time
to dry out between waterings.
i wish it knew the depth of my heart,
that i never meant to make its roots rot,
but i give and give too much.

to her, love is a limited resource
there's not much to give around
you save some for family and friends
but there is rarely a return on investment
love is scarce through her lens
so, when you offer her just a little
she cannot help but cry
at the interest accrued

sometimes,
I think it's too scary to be in love.

You offer them a cup of coffee,
and then your heart races,
hoping it wasn't too hot or too cold, and hoping that the mistake you overlooked was not reason enough
to leave you forever.

convincing myself
that you like me too
is like convincing myself
that the moon follows me
wherever i go