There’s a give in here. A give I hand to you,
a slacking of rope or tautness of need or demand that I offer begrudgingly.
I act like there’s nobility, but I have no wings to carry me above the likes of you
and we both know I want too much to begin with.

You are a hot blade, an inevitable change, something that will fade or drift from me and I will continue to grasp for you throughout my life.
I will grab and grab and come up with empty hands.
I will be ninety and still clutching outward, gnarled fingers searching for you.

Your softness is mine in my head. I am probably delusional.
I will always be delusional. Someone too insecure, too needy, too much, but never good enough for you.
You keep rising like the sun and I am keening and bending toward you like a woman at worship. You are not all of me, but you are a part of me.
I want to keep you.
I wish I could lock you up inside my breast. I want to cage you within my ribs
and let you flower there, collecting your petals in my stomach until you fill me.
Until I am old and full of crisp, browning flora.
Let me help you grow. Let me push you upwards and out. I want to unlock all of you.
I will give you all of me, a gift of trust and rawness.

Unwind yourself and curl up within me.

You are out of reach to me.
Sometimes we meet and my chest collides with yours and my stomach pushes against the softness of yours and we are just as close as if we could actually hug or press against one another.
We find a likeness or a difference that becomes an adhesive.
I think sometimes you resent me for holding on too tight.