you're fifteen minutes away.
that's a quarter of an hour, that's ten miles, that's space enough that i never have to see you again.
but still i feel my heart beating like a rabbit's foot against my rib.
i'm a girl still in denial
of being a woman with
breasts and hips and a womb.
i'm a child with my heart and i will surrender it foolishly
to the first boy to give me roses and push them into my hair.
i don't know how to love,
the way i don't know how how to stop.
but let me tell you this- it happens.
they both do.
i loved your fragile brown eyes like i'd never seen a warmer fire.
i sank my bones like an anchor to your earthly vessel and called it home.
i staggered home drunk every weekend we were together
by word only.
and i felt myself falling apart when i sighed
with sleepy repetition as we exhausted the same jokes as ever,
just a million miles different.
my mind drifted but i loved you.
the feathered finches in my chest were beaten
naked and red-skinned when they flew from my throat
to sing songs to another.
but i loved you.
and i pressed the spine of my book flatter and harder
into the table to read you my heart until the pages had fewer words,
then only words,
i still have them.
they're in my nightstand reminding me of
the love i was so blessed to find.
i'm sorry that i pushed you from boston to georgia,
but mostly from me to empty hands.
i pulled away the earth from beneath your feet.
at night i still kiss your soul.
at night i remember our virginal fumbles
and forays into love.
you are fifteen minutes away
and i hope you've found solace within your chest;
i promise to keep above water;
i wish you love and life-
i wish you the best.