leave the jagged ground exposed,
I’d rather not admit
that these wounds are self-inflicted;
rather not say that this thing is expired.
let me trip over everything preventable
to prevent myself
from overthinking.
I’d rather not be the one to have epiphanies;
rather not be the first to sign my own grave
because I’m not as naive as I’d like to be.
I wish I’d rather be different,
frowning upon stereotypes and pigeonholes.
I wish I pursued my wants
with little hesitation
and cried out my condolences at every funeral.
I’d rather lack so much composure,
because when one’s breath is so
windless,
breathing is hard to do.

and I wish that bothered me.

In the innermost chamber of the heart,
is a room where the intellect can be quiet and rest.
Here, these two old friends are on equal footing.

Neither struggles for the upper hand.
They have often smiled at each other across
the heavy wooden table placed between them.

Leaning in, they talk about your day.
"Did you feel that moment when we stood
shoulder to shoulder, and she felt it?"

Like some windless river in an ancient city,
where both shores are made of good grey granite,
they feel everything you feel, and gently stand their ground.