I fall in love
with an average
of 13 people
per day.
It’s the little things
that move me
in such unconventional
ways.
Strange, crinkled eyes
and misshapen smiles
help me
to forget
my own denial.
Reach out to me,
touch me,
remind me
of the existence
of something.
Strangers
whose hands
have textures
I don’t recognize,
I surprise
myself
with connection,
though it’s familiarity
is not foreign,
it is in fact
a trait
I revel in.
I push myself
willfully
into their worlds,
like curling
back over
moss-covered stones
into new homes,
into deep wells,
to satisfy a longing
to smell
the waves
of their existence.
I am lost
where I do not belong,
in Thanksgiving evenings
begging brothers
to play songs
while mothers
clean kitchens
and little ones
flinch
over whose game
was won,
while porch arguments
rise
over memories
come undone.
I fall in love
with
the histories
and the fallacies,
of strangers
whose shoes
do not fit me,
of he’s
and she’s
whose subtle,
brief moments
help me find in them
some peaceful atonement
for the ones
I actually allowed
myself
to leave.
Do you see in my brown eyes
what I see in your blues?
Would I love you
if I really knew you?
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
I fall in love
with an average
of 13 people
per day.
It’s the little things
that move me
in such unconventional
ways.
Strange, crinkled eyes
and misshapen smiles
help me
to forget
my own denial.
Reach out to me,
touch me,
remind me
of the existence
of something.
Strangers
whose hands
have textures
I don’t recognize,
I surprise
myself
with connection,
though it’s familiarity
is not foreign,
it is in fact
a trait
I revel in.
I push myself
willfully
into their worlds,
like curling
back over
moss-covered stones
into new homes,
into deep wells,
to satisfy a longing
to smell
the waves
of their existence.
I am lost
where I do not belong,
in Thanksgiving evenings
begging brothers
to play songs
while mothers
clean kitchens
and little ones
flinch
over whose game
was won,
while porch arguments
rise
over memories
come undone.
I fall in love
with
the histories
and the fallacies,
of strangers
whose shoes
do not fit me,
of he’s
and she’s
whose subtle,
brief moments
help me find in them
some peaceful atonement
for the ones
I actually allowed
myself
to leave.
Do you see in my brown eyes
what I see in your blues?
Would I love you
if I really knew you?
