there’s a rush in the soft clap of my pulse, and only on monday did i realise it is you:

when you cried and i felt the urge to be tender with the rhythm of your heart

tender? i am brash and overbearing

brain, mouth, hands- all tangled in a pile, interchangeable; thinking is speaking is touching intangible depths—

and yet; right now i rummage through the urban dictionary, finding the right curse for your mother; pull away soil— gentle hands so to stall erosion, so to steady the thrash to a soft rocking— to unearth the rotten roots of your pain and snip them away; to tend to you like a bonsai- tangled and heavy, shedding the skin of your precarious youth—

this is painful, i know, so i hold you in a gentle embrace as i prune and pluck at your trauma. i do not hug tighter than i should, not because i am scared you’ll break but because i will be forever held back by my devotion, by my desire to give you the world in a glass box.

everything i ever do will be secretly dedicated to you.