We think on what we can’t have.
Our thoughts hold on so our arms don’t get upset.
Thoughts, arms, lips; they feed on cyclical envy.
Why are limbs such jealous things?

Staring at maps and pointing at places,
Hoping for the chance to say, “I’ve been there”,
But only heard after days spent blurring the lines between okay and better,
And not how we wanted to hear it.

I’d rather hear, then not at all, (I think?)
I sailed out on an ocean deep and sort of yellow.
Yellow because of the sun and summer,
Deep because my legs are short.

Now my legs are stuck in the rocket summer,
Under the dirt, beneath the snow vanished,
Which winter promised but misspoke.
Though He didn’t get it wrong.

So, hands will serve and learn to understand,
That affection gives and gives,
And that’s quite alright.
We’ll never be as empty as we think.