You are the flowers in my hair,
the sea shells and the sand.
You are the lighthouse, the steady boat,
and the waves hugging land.
You are the pain in my cheeks from smiling for too long
and the pause after a film before the credits start to roll.

However, you are not the antique vinyl record spinning,
the dust collecting on my nightstand
or sweaty palms.
And you are certainly not the eerie ticking of a wall-clock.

It is possible that you are the creek of light entering my bedroom on a sleepless night
telling me to get some sleep.
Maybe even my mother's humming as she brews her morning coffee,
but you are not the bags under my eyes.
You will never be close
to being the bags under my eyes.

Unlike mine, your grace compares to snowflakes landing on the tip of my eyelashes.
In contrast,
I am spilled coffee on a new blouse.
I am the blush of red across your face,
and the tilt of your head when you don't fully understand a question.

I am the gushing wind knocking myself over,
and I am the rip in the middle of my paper
from erasing too hard.

You are the flowers in my hair,
and I, the gushing wind.
The differences seem infinite.

Yet,
somehow,
we fit.