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?