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In my poetry, what a chaotic mess we are.
I am constantly tangling myself in disarray.
When I am drowning in thoughts, you cannot
be at my legs anymore.
I will not accept your arms wrapped
so supplely yet firmly around my ankles.
The sky holds your soul, not this ocean of despair.
I can only write you so fast into these visions
until I perceive the ink as becoming a current,
pulling us back up to the top.
Soft as the landscape of your palms.
Rough as the touch of cold sheets.
We are merely puppets in this form,
but I am the one with no strings.
I am not hasty with where I place you in my words.
You are ever-changing, everlasting.
A coin flipped. A dice tossed. Somewhere
gone from my sea of stones, and eroding walls.
Away from the sirens, echoed with hungry eyes
against my voice. Look now,
I have painted a sky as pink as your cheeks
evened with lilacs and lemons.
My pen is screaming at me that you adore the night,
but in these lines it is starless.
I do not need to wish for anything because you
are here safely now. A multitude
of connecting lights is no match for your heart.
In my poetry, can’t you see it beating with mine?