You wore their hearts on your wrists and ankles
belly to belly hugging,
chalky and holistic. They extended themselves to you
palms sunwards, asking you
to see them, to see them, to see
them.

Your own heart,
you tucked carefully out of peripherals,
finding happiness in the folds of
not having to share everything.

What made you approachable
was your passion;
which you felt seep like star dust
from under your fingernails. See,
some things
are not to be shared.

When you pressed your pen to the blank page,
the etchings could be seen
from the aquifers under the tree roots.
You held it all
in question form and felt
delivery to be optional only. Quiet and
furious—when allowing yourself to be—
you rode your body
through streets strewn with dust,
bits of everyone clinging to the storefronts,
greasy thumb prints on the flyers extended at you.
Your throat was a ladder
stacked over your heart and propped against
your mind.

Like a garden you were—
and to pick the flowers
because they’re pretty
takes away their chance
to be beautiful.

On a tiny island, light years from home,
you collect yourself and breathe
your own air.


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