I am dying from a love of bluejays.
The sleep of your eyes creates spaces for small dull aches at
the pit of my stomach, gentle ukulele strumming and
the wanderlust for your past that occurs in my mind when you aren’t
nearby to whisper
the okay things.
I am accustomed to men who only let me love them from a
distance, but I fit so in the palm of your hand
that this distance becomes my land and prison.
This seems to be the culmination of all my time spent here;
Walking empty rooms, finding and replacing past treasure
I am lost in a sea of them, my emotions become myself.
I long to differentiate,
to be only
the girl who touches the tips of trees
and whispers things to animals, and dreams up a time
she did not live in and wishes she were there.
I long to have the boy
who somehow takes me