It’s stumbling on stones 

That are unknowingly, inevitably, jagged or smooth.

My school uniform crinkles and creases all sorts of ways

Even when I wish it didn’t

And I fluff the collar just a bit

With my own fingers,

Every crook and wrinkle and jutting bone 

Forever growing; changing

They are the picks to the locks of everything and anything

Except for your heart

Which is so soft

So moldeable

I long to iron it

And watch the creases be pressed out

Through the longing

Of my black pools.

Later on, crinkles and creases become okay with me.

I decide to rewear the uniform from that year

I even smell the remains of your ironed heart on it,

Not even needing a bone to unlock you.