Everyone thinks of love.
Everything seems to be about love.
I dream about kissing
the stars and the ground.
Where we cast our air and tread upon.
I’d like to think I write
something other than food
that becomes the nesting of safety.
A sad poem about conversations, just something I observed and a character formed.
Maybe if I’m still enough
I can float on conversations.
Maybe when there’s an opportunity
I won’t wait.
Maybe if I didn’t judge too hard
on myself, I’d talk in fragments.
Maybe if I start talking about what everyone likes
Maybe they’ll like me too?
Can I have some on the side
and give me some honey.
Mix it with the vinegar
and the mustard seed.
Paste on your skin and
beam in the sunlight
We pretend we are the sun
and color ourselves with rays of gold.
Let’s get old and brown.