lovers who are just not quite ready for each other;
we watch the clock on the wall like it is telling us a secret
tick listen, tock please listen, tick keep it together, tock keep listening.
write about me to pass your time
i will catch up later.
when it is you and me, i breathe in smoke
and there are no clocks.
it's too late to keep your hands to yourself
there is space between us designated for the minutes that move
we stare, we watch, we are listening with our ears to the walls
good and bad, yes and no,
i write about you when
i think about you
to pass this time,
to wait
and wait
for our time
tick its okay, tock i will catch up later, tick wait for me, tock wait for me.

there are things that no one has bothered to teach people like you
the ones who change friends with the weather and sit at tables crowded with people who don't know your name as if it can trick your brain into thinking you're less alone than the lack of people surrounding you
and it works almost like magic
pandora's box is presented in front of you
and you have no hands on your shoulder telling you not to peek
the gods above you are silent, no matter how tightly you push your palms together, your requests fall on deaf ears
with no warnings or red ribbons or safety locks
all of your past experiences forgotten
all of your mother's advice shoved deep into the parts of your chest that are closed off to the public
all of the nights that come seven months later hidden under your pillowcase
you forget the taunting "daddy issues" and how you flinch every time someone raises their voice
you exist openly, in a way that you've heard is synonymous with recklessness for the ones who haven't documented the way you stay up for hours each night begging the stars to send someone to love you
begging the gods who have shunned you
to stop losing your pieces when you hit the pavement
there are things that no one has bothered to teach people like you
there are lessons that you've had to learn from experience
your cautiousness clashes with recklessness and your abandonment fears are categorized as something else entirely
and no matter how you paint this picture
it is not poetic
you do not fall in love
you fall and fall and fall apart

there are poems from years ago when i loved you most
shaky hand thoughts
where i couldnt focus on anything but your mouth
where i couldnt sleep because i wasnt sure if you were loving me correctly
i sleep soundly now,
i write about more than your words in my head,
swirling around and making themselves comfortable
you were not loving me correctly.
my hands have stopped shaking.

no one ever taught me
not to make homes out of the people i kiss,
not to make space in my ribcage for every meaningless "i love you"
so, more out of habit than kindness,
i have given myself to every undeserving wanderer.
i have watched them walk away with my pieces.
no one ever taught me how to keep myself whole in love
it echos through the walls of my chest,
what is left? what is left?

it is late, cut holes in old linen sheets
let light pour through into a space we have designated as our own
"our kingdom," you whisper, "you and me versus the winter."
it is lazy sunday morning, time trails behind us and you count freckles on my face
familiar like old habits, strumming against my stomach like your favorite guitar.
it is tired, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars like a discount planetarium
"a serious question," we know these words are never serious. you dont always have to ask, just kiss me, just kiss me, just kiss me.
it is tuesday afternoons, barefoot dancing in refrigerator lights
like safe habits, like a home to go to when the people you love cannot contain you.
like free space to be completely not contained, like breaking necklaces,
"please dont leave, not yet, a few more minutes."
write poems, i will turn them into songs.
make movements, i will turn them into habits,
running my hand up and down your arm like executive function
hushed whisper, a just-you-and-me whisper;
it is a poem every time you open your mouth.
you are the sunlight coming through the linen,
you are the lazy sunday morning,
you are what i hold onto during winter,
you are my hope for spring.

i have played this scene so many times
back and forth; it feels nostalgic like a memory.
i am lying next to you,
legs tangled up,
running your hand through my messy hair
using your chest as a pillow
your breathing is some tired syncopation and your heartbeat is an alarm clock,
it is lazy-
whatever happened before is over
it has become quiet
no shirt, blankets in a ball at the end of the bed
maybe i was crying, maybe we were having ***, maybe you yelled and i got defensive, maybe it was nothing at all
it is still,
we say sorry without speaking,
it is understood and we come to agreements
we fall asleep and wake up and whatever happened before is over.
it plays in my head so often
it feels like i am recalling your smile
domestic moments,
some moments where you are here after it is over.
some painful, fake, imaginary memories where you stay,
you stay, you stay.

I type and erase, and go back, and start over
I repeat this until I can write some shaky confession that resembles poetry
About something that is not how your lips taste
And how you pull me on top of you
Grab me by the waist and lace your fingers with mine
Something that is not how I quiet my terrifying fear of intimacy
Just for a moment, just for this second, just to type and erase,
and go back, and start over
And they tell me, "write what you know"
So my pages are empty and I scream back, "I've forgotten everything else but you."