i. it is uncertain.
my body is a vessel for this heart,
and I begged for your eyes upon me,
greedy, gluttonous and warm,
in a dress
that curled along my body,
your hand caressing the only place I’ve known as a home,
and you wanted more.
I startle easy,
and you wanted more.
don’t you understand, my dear,
that I am not a common interest?
that I wander in the smog with jittery hands and a longing for stillness?
you cannot heal what is not broken,
but can you endear to what is different?
am I foolish for acknowledging more?
am I a liar for allowing you in?
am I enough for you?
can I ever be?
•
ii. it is warmth.
I am a painting of a firefly,
a suggestion of reality but superfluous in nature,
and I write with abandon,
blackened spirit but gloomless yet,
bright but flickering.
and you arrive everywhere with purpose,
entrenched in candle light
and clever rapport
and song on your tongue
and belief in the truths of your world.
white walls, painted calls,
smirk hiding behind leafy fronds.
how,
I ask,
do a fox and firefly
find peace?
•
iii. it is simple.
we are here,
together.
we must try,
without question,
my love.
•
03/02/19
Tofu 