a poem

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

trove accommodations.

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

There.