It's too late
I feel like you are the yes,
and I am the spaces in
between each and every letter. I feel
like a burning lilac, incense and smoke
along the wisping curls of your
lip. Yes, tell me why we turn,
why we dance and why we
grin. The interviewer asked questions
I was too afraid to answer. Questions
about why I never told you how I
really feel, why I am scared about becoming
a stick in the molasses.
I wish I could feel the highs and highers
of your neck, feel your smile on my heart.
I want to be soil between your fingers,
and the scent of cherries. I am the
wood slats of a cottage, begging you
to stay, because I know how cold it is
outside, I've been outside. I want to
print business cards with both of our names.
But I know when I'm being foolish,
I know when you're trying to let me down easy,
that little grin and sigh, cross your arms,
look at the trees and listen to them breath.
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