this is not a heartbreak poem
this is not a poem about loss or yearning
or all the shattering that comes with it
this is not a poem about sadness

this is a poem about falling in love
and falling out of love
and falling, and falling, and falling
this is a poem about gravity

in this poem there is no measure
there is no rhyme, only longing and
a heart that keeps itself wide open
for things to beat and break for

in this poem there are sunsets
and oceans and moons and sweet, tangy
summers and hands, always hands
all maddening clichés about falling in love

this is not a heartbreak poem
but it is a poem about things that break
hearts and promises and prose
but never us - never us

i'm sorry for treating you like a secret
like you are only capable of being beautiful
when whispered in the dark
or tucked inside pockets
or buried under layers of
trying to be enough

i do not think we deserve each other just yet
but i am learning to love every part of you
even the ugly ones, even the ones i never wanted
even the parts that make me wish
i were somebody else

they warned me about people like you.
boys with the sea in their eyes
and hands that leave ripples in the wake
of everything they touch.

your tide is swelling
and it rolls through my tongue –
sweet and salty and
satisfyingly destructive.

i taste it and spit out the calm.

they warned me about people like you.
boys who love in waves and wash
themselves ashore
and settle beside the chaos.

they warned me of people who love.

every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end; and yours begins with her: the girl with steel spine and sunshine smile and a hurricane heart. it begins when she says your name and it sounds like it was always meant for you. it unravels and unspools and suddenly the mark burns on the back of your hands: best friends.

a couple of weeks pass and you make a home out of a bay window. a couple of months pass and you make a home out of each other. a couple of years pass and she is every crevice, every corner of home you keep coming back to. a couple of years pass and her name and her soul and the soft lilt of her voice are stamped like a map on the back of your hand: sister.

they say it ends in middle school. they say that a friendship such as yours isn’t built to last. but the girl carved on the back of your hand never really knew how to listen to what other people say. so she stays.

every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. and this story is ours, she says, her fingers tracing the lines stretched across your knuckles, finding their way home. ours, ours, ours.

*and it begins and ends with us.

is this what peace sounds like?
blood – on sidewalks and calloused skin and other
places that used to know grace like an anthem
is this what freedom sounds like?

is this what change sounds like?
people chanting die die die, brothers saying
here, i sharpened my freedom enough
to carve you lifeless

is this what nation sounds like?
silenced war songs and muted lullabies
go to sleep, go to sleep, there is no room here
for life or mercy, no room for heart

is this us? is it still us? when the lights are out
do our hymns still count? do our promises
still matter or have our ears turned deaf
from the very voices we fought for?

physics says:
it is impossible for a single body
to have infinite mass or energy

and yet you do –
oh god, you do

i am not a scientist but i know that
even science cannot measure your heart
or your hope or your fight out in teaspoons

even numbers cannot contain how precisely
your limbs and the layers of your skin are
built for the singular purpose of being

and darling, if mass can neither be created nor
destroyed – then surely, surely, nothing can stop
all that infinity in you from fighting to survive

you drop your weapon and run
and they say: coward
but i say: brave
in all the ways that matter