you are not a prodigy,
despite talent for taking care of yourself.
understanding politics by grade school isn't worth much
being loved is.
having your hand gripped when stumbling.
playful laugh coaxed from your lungs.
bounce as much as you can.
cherish your days of knowing how to land.
to the girl with my fingers:
they aren't as beautiful as they are lost.
shaking; nerves over taken by demons
screaming in the night.
struggling to tear needle away from skin
too crooked to be melodic
not articulate enough to move masses
hoping to find north; seeking direction.
to the girl after healing:
body a battlefield with no monuments,
topographical map of travail.
you have scars;
i am sorry for those.
you've stored love in people
just begging to give it back.
open your mouth; souls speak
yours needs to learn to light up mountains again
to you over there:
i miss you
the way I miss a forgotten memory.
existence is more than physical space.
here i assemble words by feeling not syntax
perhaps you own a 'chicago manual of style'
if so; would you mind being my editor?
there are parts of you nestled in my spine
playing peek-a-boo behind my vertebrae
mono but without the gift of a kiss