Sometimes it feels like you are space
And I am the object that stands in your way.
I am the matter that doesn’t matter,
And you are the lack of me.
You are the breeze through the open door
That leads to my chaos,
But if I’m being honest today,
I say that I prefer your storm against my windowpane
To any promise of serenity.
You are the gap between muscle and skin,
The space between iris and cornea,
The clicking, empty nervousness of teacup and saucer
As they miss the table and fall to the rug.
You are the feathers that swear they will become wings,
though they have fallen from that which they aspire to be
And even though you may have fallen, darling,
Even though you’ve swept across the plains
Without ever kicking up dust,
You’ve clung gently to my bones
In moments of darkness;
You struck matches in my chest
And hung lanterns from my ribs
When I never thought I’d see the sun again.
You’ve planted seeds in gravel
And watched a forest bloom.
You’ve written pages that I keep folded
In my pocket for the days when I spend
Too much money feeling sorry for myself
And too much time buying things I will never want,
because your words remind me that there
Is too much good in this world for me to
Extinguish on my own, which dampens my ego somewhat
But helps me sleep at night.
You are
The shapeless, murky warmth
In my first moment of wakefulness,
Before the planet catches up to me,
And I am merely an ocean
Merely responsible for constant movement.
In this life, you are polished wood
Wrapped around my chilled bones,
Both of us gleaming,
Neither of us whole.