I don’t see the sparkle in his eye
Not the slight of his jaw, the tone of his hair.
But I dream of the tightness felt in my stomach whenever

I was in love.

The heart feels caged within my ribs, beating the walls, aching to get out.

Is it then, a crime to cage the heart? To keep it locked up.

But I feel it change, like seasons. One day I’m in love
(birds are singing, orchestrating my every step.
There is a string section, playing distinctly for me, taking into account
the rapid beating of my heart.)

The next I’m clawing against the door, dying to get out
and nauseous with desire to feel free again.

It’s unhealthy, this obsession for the unknown.
because nothing, then, can be enough and

She can’t stop moving.

How will she ever know?