your music -both of your music is resounding,
as i try to make my words beautiful
when all the while they’ve just been readable.
you pile small words into loving strings and blocks,
you put music in my ears and show me
that which brings you joy.
do i bring you joy?
i want to bring you basket-fulls of it.

you are not what i should allow -i cannot allow you to reside in these corners of my mind,
which are supposed to hold the tall tanned forms of men and the awkward and gangly boys
who play in the schoolyard.
they’ve run off to shoot their basketballs, tap their thumbs against their screens,
really i don’t need them to feel soft butterflies in my stomach,
they’ll never have the incandescent butterflies in me for their own,
they can’t deserve it.

these uneven strands, like paper beads in front of the pale moon,
glowing above the waters of a small village,
are heartfelt and wonderful,
like the declarations i imagine are given there,
where the rest of the world meets the scintillating fireflies and slow dreams on slow river canoes.
can you imagine us, if our brains were not so worried about soaring ahead -if we had time to experience those in-between moments that allowed us to fall in love?

but we have no in-between moments,
even though i delude myself every night, dreaming of a day when i put my pencil down,
and allow myself see you -sitting next to me while eating, your warm voice on the phone laughing softly in my ear,
you laying next to me while watching the stars -ever distant as always,
just as much of a mystery to me as the map of the night sky and it’s burning stars, spinning clouds,
and utter cold.

each delusion has become a beautiful memory, a twisting mystery.
a soft touch to the face, brushes of hands. could you be in love,
or was it just that i was your favorite girl -today? or were you brave?
do you miss me? my large eyes want to drink you up, and allow myself to imagine us,
doing more than brushing hands and painting each other’s faces over and over and over again,
until we’ve made masterpieces out of words and feather-light wanting.

she awoke
like an aubade-
a song greeting the dawn.
her eyes blinked the morning dew away;
the sleep dissipating like fog rolling over hills and out of sight.
her body was full of stories,
of dreams-
she sang wordless lullabies in
amaranth and ivory.
it hurt her, i think,
to craft worlds from impetuous grins and
the lazy dip of cherry blossoms in spring.
her veins hurt from the
strain of harsh lights and panic attacks in public bathrooms,
her veins hurt from the monotony of school
and the dull, numb throbbing of a
barely there headache.
She would come home,
after a particularly long day
and stare at herself,
not recognizing who stared back.
sea foam on her lips and
glitter shimmering upon her cheeks,
she broke the world apart with her bare hands
and climbed inside.

there is no reconciliation.
we're bleeding like paint
in the rain—
wilting flowers
colourless in
our greys.

sometimes your eyes
double, your words
curl my cheek, still lingering
to brush stray strands.

i'm open inside out;
when you turn away
i know the hinges are closing.