I think it’s awful and it’s beautiful,
I hear it the way you do —
not the way it sounded, but the way
you meant it to.

It sounds like the night I slept
in your shirt.
Like the first time that you asked me
if I was sure
when we touched and we touched and
we touched,

Like when I whispered I loved you
and knew I would miss you —
it sounds like exactly how much.

It’s awful and it’s beautiful, just once
or ten times through, you know
Not sure you knew the piece of me
you had but, now you do.