your palms will be flush
and not the puzzle pieces of my
mixed up life:
healing meets masochism.
I promise to walk the streets with you,
until we see the sunrise.
I’m more than what you’re holding out for.
it’ll be me that you’re holding onto.
So keep your hands free,
palms facing the sky,
and if a teardrop tries to escape those eyes,
I will kiss it before it can even grace your hands.
A kiss brushed against your knuckles,
and dry hands:
you are the only thing I love about winter.
Sculpt me into the woman you will love,
but do not try to mortar my cracking marble.