Sometimes it’s harder

to say hello

than I love you.

My tongue is a root

without water.

My mouth is full

of splinters and dirt.

We sit across

from each other

not speaking

and I wish

you’d say something

So that I’d know

it was okay

to talk to you.


Maybe you really

are a star

and if it is so

then maybe you

don’t even exist

in the same

place and time as I do.

Though it is more likely

that I am the one burning.


If only I weren’t so shy,

so overrun with butterflies,

so fucking me all the time.

Then I might surprise you.

Then I might not second guess.

Then I might find

a hundred ways to confess.

I might really be the wind,

turbulent and gentle

dreamy and existential,

everything and yet somehow

nothing at all.