we make the same shelf
i on one end
and you on the other
there are stories wedged in between us
their pages bursting with
words of love, loss, and longing
and pressed between those
beautiful words
are s p a c e s
that are all so silent and
yet so loud —
all of them make you seem so far away.





Piece of art

i won’t ask you to cut off
whatever part of you
you think is excessive
just so we’re the same shape
you know, i like the strips of crumpled paper
peeling off your cheeks
and the drops of dreary paint
spilling from your eyes
i like the crooked curve of your smile
and the stray slanted lines
of your shoulders, arms, and hands.

i am all smooth surfaces and soft, blurred edges you see —
my chest, waist, legs, feet —
and a palette of pastel colors
i wear on my head
the paint — mild pinks, yellows, peaches —
woven into the strands of my wavy hair.

but maybe if we put together these incongruities
arrange them
fold, press, pat
frame it
place it on the wall
and take a little step back
we will be surprised to see
a beautiful piece of art
we could call Us.