Take my words
wasted ink on missing notebook pages
all consequence on trees and lack of sleep,
on my knees in overgrown grasses
drier than my skin.

awake, it’s noon. Far past time, hours up waiting for you.
everything screams your name
because I compared you to even the
slightest scent of cinnamon
on a day too dark to read.
So I can’t hold you accountable for
my lack of dry journal pages but
I’ll hold you accountable for
the new shade of my irises, the filtering film over my eardrums,
and the numbing of my nerves.

You and the world, which I never expected to agree,
accuse me violently,
“don’t feel so fully.”