behind bookshelves, under mattresses,
mixed with the milk in the bottles on my doorstep.
I can't give you a good reason, for this. Love
just seems like the sort of thing I'd
misplace,
in the grand scheme of
life and death and everything in between.
And there are days where I feel it
like the perpetual sting of a
struggling honeybee,
like a paper cut from an unopened
envelope, like the
scorching touch of hot wax
but I tend to ignore the scars.
I want to feel safe again
I think: safety is an island in a vast sea of consequence
and no one ever taught me how to swim.
I will not try today, I will not try tomorrow. I am too warm to wonder
about everything in between.
I've been asked what I know of love
(of cherry lips and apple eyes, of
feeling lonely in crowded corridors)
and I wonder if knowing what love was would make me feel whole again.
I've been in pieces for far too long
I hide them behind bookshelves, under mattresses...
I hid them too well.
-Cass
