In my poetry, what a chaotic mess we are.
I am constantly tangling myself in disarray.

When I am drowning in thoughts, you cannot
be at my legs anymore.

I will not accept your arms wrapped
so supplely yet firmly around my ankles.

The sky holds your soul, not this ocean of despair.
I can only write you so fast into these visions

until I perceive the ink as becoming a current,
pulling us back up to the top.

Soft as the landscape of your palms.
Rough as the touch of cold sheets.

We are merely puppets in this form,
but I am the one with no strings.

I am not hasty with where I place you in my words.
You are ever-changing, everlasting.

A coin flipped. A dice tossed. Somewhere
gone from my sea of stones, and eroding walls.

Away from the sirens, echoed with hungry eyes
against my voice. Look now,

I have painted a sky as pink as your cheeks
evened with lilacs and lemons.

My pen is screaming at me that you adore the night,
but in these lines it is starless.

I do not need to wish for anything because you
are here safely now. A multitude

of connecting lights is no match for your heart.
In my poetry, can’t you see it beating with mine?