you read me  like braille.
connecting the dots and then crushing them down,
as if they didn't exist,
i'm just a selfish girl.
i heard your favorite sonata
colliding between your headaches
and headphones,
but i wanted you to listen to me instead.
i could tell by the language your body
created,
careless,
brittle even,
but you'd never admit to such
an inclusive map like the one
you picked up on your last
travel through the desert.
and once you got back to
Pennsylvania, you spoke of
how sometimes the nights were
frigid and how the sun bloomed
always, like the day i
reached the level of
vocabulary words
and the attraction
i found between me and
some boy.
i didn't think he'd stick with
my indecisive storm watches
or the fact that i loved the
way shooting stars meant
nothing really.
they were just strikes through the
sky that caught nerves.
so every once in a while when
i catch you speaking
in temperatures,
i guess i don't have the right
furnace to burn through it.
maybe it's selfish,
but i have my own thoughts to
cool down before
i tend to yours.