The brain orchestrated words for these lines—
and now they are absent.
I feel so much
that I dilute the pages with nonsense.
The words are pouring,
being created
whether or not I choose to write them down.
When I don’t,
they’re simply lost—
a missed opportunity.
I want to see your smile.
It’s always when the hands creep into the night
that I yearn for you the most.
Is that the haunting time for loneliness?
Then, when the sun rises,
I feel dispatched—
a stranger
to the pre-a.m. spews of love.
This is why I always feel inconsistent.
I want to feel the same—
night and day.
Maybe I would,
if I didn’t always convince myself otherwise.
A sunrise or so later…
The sun is up,
and the courage sinks
onto the backspace of the keyboard.
No words have to be said.
No emotions have to be felt.
In the heat of the July sun,
I feel confident—
to hide
from what expels from the heart.
I don’t see the point
in having to tell you
that you interest me
in ways that make me want to explore you—
and the blueprint of your assembly.
I don’t want to be the one
who watches you
with a new item
every time the organs ache.
And yet,
I don’t know if I want to be that girl for you.
Maybe
I’d just like the opportunity
to figure it out.
I don’t know what’s holding me back.
Not these lines.
Not the binding of the book.
Just me.
termites of the page 