She once told me she was terribly afraid of the 889 blades of grass in the park down her street, of the 889 worn books in her local library of the 889 gum-covered steps to her bus stops of the 889 looks she must make over her shoulder of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes stealing looks away from me.
I missed her when she sent me pictures because I couldn't bear to look at empty frames of empty eyes (red dows no match red unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass after a year and two months of tranparency) and also because the things that slipped into my phone could only remind me of moments that could never be and dreams that would never come true.
I don't know what to say to her without breaking her (like the broken glass) (the image still hasn't left my head) but she inspires me toward metaphors and the adromeda galaxy isn't so far away anymore.
How can I stay by her side when she triggers me to want to fall but how can I ignore her call when she is the only person I feel safe with to coincide
I am afraid to tell her (or myself) how I feel because in a cliche I don't know how I feel myeslf but dear, together, we are formidable and apart -- I don't know about you, but I catch myself on the dry spells -- we are fort minable
this song has been stuck in my hear since it reminded me of you and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt and not altogether original
But I want us to be the figures in the painting you said you saw us in I want to be that feminist duet (even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's) I want to be the cats in the picture with the intertwined tails or the flowers tangled up on a vine (I was going to send you that on but I thought against it because you were too beautiful to be compared to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)
So I will be the 889 poetry books you dog-ear and highlight and secretly slightly plagiarize and I will be the 889 plants growing in your backyard, sparkling for you like replacement diamonds after the rain (and better yet I will be the forest of 889 trees looming not frighteningly but protectively over you) and I will be the 889 strides of golden brick road to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day and I will be the 889 innocent peaks at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose (because a delicate rose such as you cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated) and I will even be the 1 778 pairs of eyes stealing my own looks, and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.
I will split myself into 6 228 parts to make you feel comfortable and if this is not a love poem then it is an apology and gratitude and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything
what I'm trying to say is, we could go so many different ways, and what's one more expression of love to you after all you've been through.