i loved giggling into your hand, my tongue tickling little poems into your palm (tree) kisses and i have an idea of making a mirror out of my eyes, i tend to you elsewhere dear bittersweet dream; purse, clutch, clothes: all reusable paper towels when there are tears.
(So now at the end i go like i love just because the ways in which people leave, we’re chalking them up to walking up to sidewalk cracks, turning Alice in Canada’s Wonderland small and falling.
i wonder where they all go. i hope i become a better listener. i want to collect every story) Touch is only painful when i hold on and when it’s too easy to get away. i like a good fight. i like to lose too, sometimes, more times yes. Think of all the bones in the way.
It’s never what we explicitly say. i am just a small round fluffy animal, a brown bunny eating berries. My compass points slightly north of resilience. i am no church and neither are you, but maybe we like to touch. It clicks, like any other part of life. Or it doesn’t, and
if it doesn’t, there is still the later love. Sometimes i feel not even half my opening line, “My past,” she said, “hilariously, in conversation, sounds like slander.”
Consult a river, how it splits in two, how it drowns powerful questions and holds me afloat all at once.
I write too much about water.