I write about a lot of things.
I write about being me:
being anxious,
being frustrated,
being small,
being awed,
being lightning,
being found.

I write about cities
I wish to peel back
& crawl under,
cozy beneath the layers
of history and concrete.

I write about looking
for love,
for a home,
for a family.

I write about looking.

I write about friends
who hurt
& laugh when they stand
on the edge of the ocean
that we shared in childhood.

On paper as blank as my sleeve,
I contort
my hopes
& longings,
for here is where I write about
lovers
I have never known.

They vary in height
and fears
and ability to dance
without collecting humbleness
in their heels.

I’ve never touched a lover-
not with skin,
anyway.

So I build lovers
out of humanizing habits:
some swear;
some laugh too loud at my not-loud jokes;
one lover cringes
when I talk about myself
the way I feel
I deserve to be talked about.

I write about what I know.
I write about wanting.
I write about longing
for a lover who isn’t hollow.

And one day-
one lovely,
frightening day,
I’ll write about
the exact shade of wonderful
my lover is.