It’s too bad I can’t kiss his lips.
I’m not attracted to them.
But, if I were, he would reject me.
For my stories are buried deep
And they cannot be read easily
It is as if, I shouldn’t exist.
The problem with being buried deep
Under the frosty top, is that I see
The mist for what it truly is
He edits the mist.
He looks for countries caught
In eternal Octobers, Stories about
Leaves and lives, the constant state of fall
It is the arc of the descent he catches
Like holding on to a match for too long.
If I were to put my hand upon his chest
He would jerk away from
the coldness of my fingertips
I have stuffed my heat deep
Sometimes, I can’t even feel warm.
My tears aren’t made of kerosene
I’ve been to the ocean too many times