breathe,
breathe.
you are
flakes of
silver and
copper tubing
and lilies at
sunrise. do
not be afraid
of the thickness
of your words
or the quake
of your laugh.
you are more
than the confines
of tongues that
have tried to
define you, more
than words spoken
into your neck.
you have a century's
old soul and the
things that have
written themselves
into the backs of
your hands are
just markers for
this lifetime.
you are okay.
breathe,
breathe.

and while you may have
known my favorite poet
and what i watch when
i'm sad you did not know
my heart, did not
understand its cadence,
never took the time to
listen to the way it
whispered your name
into the outermost layer
of my lungs so that i
could breathe it out
when i spoke to you.

today i touched
trees and smelled
leaves and took
a nap with my
dog and my mom
told me, "meg,
you're going to
be just fine."

icouldneverquite
get you down on
paper. iknewyour
favorite band and
favoritemovie and
what you sounded
like when you slept
but ididnotknow how
to put the thumping of
yourheart againstthe rain
or the gravel of your voice
echoing in that soft spot right
below my ear into words. there
were gold ribbons streaming
from your hands always
always (weren't  there)
at least i think there were.
i only painted your outline once
in orange on a piece of cardboard
but it didn't fill my apartment the
way your laugh did so i covered
it with yellow rosebuds and
threw it in the dumpster
on my way to work.

please
move
slowly

when i was
little my
parents
said
i was
growing
like a ****
(and maybe
i still am) but
what if i want
to grow like
something
else?

they say you should
fear flowers for they
grow in adversity,
adapt, and face
the sun, and
when we
were little
we ****** on
the stems of gardenias
like honeybees with our
nimble, sticky fingers. And
today I learned to ride a bike
with no hands and a sweat
plastered shirt clinging to
my spine, so, instead,

shouldn't you be afraid of me?