there are reasons I know your hand is tiny and warm,
tiny and warm in my hand.
squeezed firm, without hurting
(affectionately...and I don't want you to leave)
or fingertips, lingering on ends as we skip.
curled at the last inch, locking us together.
the music divides and separates
a catalyst, the pathway
to cry in desperation.
[the way I'm late for work.
just to write about you.
and want you to write back,
and be late for school.]
our holidays don't mean the same thing
and I'm sorry I get so mad,
frustrated with space, and time,
and anyone in my (fucking) way.
pronouns that don't match up in my head.
anything for you.
for you and me.
hope for other things.
to say them a different way.
like, "us."
everything is pure.
my personal best and worse
drawn out so quickly
I'm sure you know what it means-
-it surely means something.
and you've said the same thing.
I hope you don't wish I've forgotten that.
I'd pray if I could.