watercolor jacaranda leaves flutter to the ground
under the bare feet we walk on, casually
the sun bakes our shoulders and the glitter on my face from last night
there’s no breakfast like the things you won’t say to me
your body, a heart as sacred soil, fenced in and desert-like
with flowers dried and decomposing on what is left
every time you back up your car without looking
i scream internally and love the way the sunset plays across your nose as we drive
you carried me down the mountain when my ankle hurt after that hike we so stupidly did, wading through
the ash of a wednesday
i need you to understand that we were hugging, from across the table,
the first time I looked into your eyes, and you smiled back
it wasn’t just that I thought about holding you, it was like you
were already holding me
cupping your hand over my soft shoulders, before pulling me even closer,
like you will do this; will take care of me; forever
i will always worship at the altar of our bodies embracing
softly, at sunset, your hands around my waist
mostly obscured by blankets and only the light from outside
you’re an impressionistic version of yourself, which is
a hardened necessity so i can forget this temporality
because i don’t want this to be a mistake
because i love you
it’s too bad—and trust me, I wish I could pull different words and devotions out of you—but you will
always say in the end,
that I am too much and you that you don’t love me