I think about writing about stars
and empty soda bottles
and anything unrelated to you
but then you and your whirlpool eyes...
my pretty stars are space junk
and my empty soda bottles are trash.
i pointed out orion in the sky.
you took my hand and
asked me why it mattered
over the clinking sound of breaking china
or cheap metal maybe,
something as insignificant as my heart.
my fingers curled into fists,
as i realized you had no clue how you bruised me
I love every bit of you
your eyes, your hair, the shape of your jaw
and your nose and ears
the things people notice when they first see you
your fingers, your natural rhythm,
the way you pick up little things
and turn them over in your hands.
the things nobody notices but me
love makes everything precious treasure.
makes trivial objects, sounds, and memories
how you squint when you smile,
almost hiding those eyes i love
and your lips twist up like they used to
right before you kissed me.
if i were to collapse,
and they were to take me to the hospital,
the doctors would cut me open
and gape at mess inside.
they'd wonder who'd been taking stabs at my heart
for the past two years...
but why did it matter
whether i had a whole heart or not
they couldn't pry the empty bottle from my hands.
there was the time though
when you treasured me,
and I sparkled brighter than the space junk stars
and you collected the empty soda bottles.
i wrote poetry for you
in permanent marker on the empty, empty bottles.
you tucked the falling strands of hair behind my ear
and promised me today, tomorrow, forever.
there was that once
when you turned everything trivial
into something miraculous.