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I Chased Birds For Centuries; It Was A Long Time Before I Realized They Only Fly Away
Gently, quietly, peacefully
You tickled the inside of my spine,
shed kisses light as dandelions
in the palm of a young girl’s hand
Easily, timidly
Your fingertips danced with mine
in the afternoon light
on a day
that smelled like cherry orchards
and fresh laundry
I counted roses at night,
hoped I could savor them
in the morning.
Softly, ardently, diligently
I waited for the sky to turn purple
and savored your kisses in the
palm of my hand
You were the plant I watered
that was already dead,
the song
I had written in pen on a napkin
stained with cheap lipstick
in the back of a train
I hoped you’d think of me now
I was the poem you started
but never wrote
I was the painting you craved
but never made.
The very last trace
of a half-shredded dandelion,
its ragged petals dangling
in the afternoon warmth.
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