i met you in the middle of august
during the death of summer
but the birth of my life
the leaves were just beginning to turn
the shade of mustard
of my favorite yellow
the specks of gold inside the dog of my childhood
and you were a melancholy prince
a monsoon of everything I was always too busy looking elsewhere for
always on the cusp
now before my eyes it was terrifying
I was too busy in my own sadness
always teetering on the verge of the roof
more mosquito bite than girl
when they asked why I was always writing
what could I write about if I wasn't ever talking to people
no sensory experiences but the ones I imagined
a shyness of a body
a flushing fever of a person
how could I explain
spill onto the kitchen sink gripping strangers' shoulders
crying I was in love with everything
and could that be such a bad thing
I didn't want to be a wound
but there we were
stealing groceries from the store and never sleeping
inside a romantic cocoon
I would go anywhere with you
be your favorite friend
a favored nervousness inside the pit of your amygdala
if you wanted me to
classical music playing while we make dinner with the food we took without asking always being more with less
