There is a part of me that doesn’t understand longing.
And yet, with my hands full of daisies, forget-me-nots,
I walk into a field of wildflowers and ask for more.
This is how I feel when you touch my shoulder.
There are nights of only so much moonshine
and I want to bathe in more than my share.
Saltwater, you’ve said. The oceans calms. Sometimes
I lose myself and want to go under. Part mermaid.
Part riptide. There was a time when every beach
was a room I would undress in. Now, I forget to live
that openly. Now, I hold back what I want to say.
There’s a belief we each have to live flawlessly.
I rip off the roots of flowers and place them in a vase.
Forget the fields where you could kiss me hard
and instead, call the florist, close the door.
Because we can’t say what we want, we write
a confessional poem where every sentence is true,
except one. Tell me again how often you think about me.
Tell me again how the drowning man finds himself
dreaming how one day walk he’ll walk on land.