I tend to sit awake
and dream
of what could be.
could have been.

I can't stay still
around him,
but he lets me choose.

"don't make me choose."

I need him
on grey, dewy mornings
on humid nights crouched in the back
of my scope of reason.

he tells me everything.
he never shrouds himself
but he isn't proud of his pain.

the nettles sticking to the pelt,
two bodies melt
as they meet
in the middle.

what a lovely cup
of lemonade.
I wish it was mine.

I wish the boy with the argyle socks
had the sense in him
not to follow me.

I wish I had the courage
to be the compass.