I'm realizing how beautiful you are
without even looking at you.

If I was looking, I know our eyes
would be even,
perfectly distanced
so that no one could hear all the
whispers we share:
through what we see
and what we wish we could
forget.

I know you rearranged your
furniture, and asked for my advice
about the things you know I like
to talk about, and that you gave
me the room I needed so that I could
descend through my sadness like a
bucket of oil spilled over gravel

but there's always a something
and with me there's too much change.

I've let myself slip in and out of the rocks
and I've settled in a shape like stars and
kittens.

Darling, you're not my teacher
or my mother, you're just a woman
with a son and short hair with asthetically
pleasing walls that are good for looking at
with crying eyes.

I'll steal books and rip pages out for you
if you let me. There's only so much I can
say with this body and it's never the same.
If you're looking for a constant, I suggest
you stay away from liquid.