Footsteps should feel like rose petals, velvet and red,
when you’re not soft enough
I can hear you approaching
wearing your father’s shoes. They used to clunk around as you walked;
they used to be too big.
Now they fit.

I know I shouldn’t hold you without arms,
but I am too in love with this
and it’s getting to my head faster than the things you say when we're falling asleep.

I’m telling you about things I felt
because you asked if they were real feelings or simply colors
and I don’t have an answer yet but it’s coming to me.
Now,
about last night
I only cried because you said you were afraid
and my heart goes out to you:
the only thing you have to fear is your mind.
I made a new color today.

I thought I would be able to tell you more
but isn’t that always the case
filed and boxed and put on a shelf because no one bothered to look close enough
or pay their bills.

I wasn’t going to say it,
but I saw a heart hiding under your bed and I think it’s mine
don’t keep it too long
don’t think I’ve forgotten it

Sometimes I think I won’t ever be enough
and that you won’t ever realize it
so, so sorry.
(Too bad you’d never experiment)

I’m always speaking but I’m never listening
all I want to do is hear your voice
clear
as a glass of water
but I keep putting a spoon in and stirring,
stirring until the water moves so fast that I get ****** in
half asleep and dreaming, forgetting the meaning
of oxygen.

I guess I was trying to show you something you couldn’t see
just like time—
there’s more of it than you think.
You watch me closely but you forget
blinks;
you forget the ripples in a pond.
Before you know it, dinner will be over
I’ll be full, and you’ll be wondering where
my appetite came from.
Didn’t you know?
I’ve been hungry for years.