I dreamt of a love as oblong as possible,
with its turmoil in a downslope, eager to settle.
Akin to a thunderclap in the summer,
as abrupt as the sky darkening and the rain trailing behind hustling feet: there she was.
But, she? She is a she,
And, I, the same
Though, I with a gangly frame and square hips. The kindling was lit, but it aroused no suspicion,
but I, against better judgment,
stared a bit too long at the curve
of her shoulder and the sharp of her collarbone,
but what does this mean? Do I really—
Cautious care, with the studious diligence
ingrained in me, I list each reason, how it could not be because she is a she
Yet, I describe the flower of her hair and the
lilt of her laughter to the extent of her arms,
I reveal the shaky truth to my mother
and she shreds my words into my hands;
my palms a bloody mess, with my heart nowhere in sight.
Each are feathery and chipped, but her smile
is brighter than any beginning and
crisper than any morning.
This is okay,
this is more than okay,
and I deserve the fireworks
that accompany fingers interlacing
and promising an eternity.
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