You talk to me about daisies
like my lungs are made
of their petals and my
eyes of their pollen,
and I am not afraid of
the way you held me-
I am afraid of the way
I kept on slipping back
to you as though your
shoulder was the only
one that I could rest my
head on as though your
chest was the only one
my hands could fall
asleep in, as though your
thighs were the only one
my fingers wanted to hold,
I am not afraid of the way
you held me. I am afraid
of the way your lashes paled
darker against your snow skin,
your eyes golden beneath
your char hair, I am afraid of the
way your hands felt of comfort
and still riddled with excitement,
I am okay. And not. All the same.
You talk to me as though my lungs
are made of daisies, you hold my arm
as though my body is it's stem, I am not
all the same and okay all at. Once.