Poems about dinner at seven,

and baths at three in the morning. 

Poems about faith at midnight,

and rampaging nights on the town. 

About painting the city in blue,

with your favorite coat on. 

 

Poems about wild children dancing in fairy circles,

sacrificing their names for innocence,

for who needs a name anyway? 

They would give their most prized possessions

if they could only be carried to bed one more time. 

 

Poems about eating your own heart,

and bugs in the wintertime. 

Poems about the smell of dust mites, 

and the taste of warm lemonade. 

Poems that concur death and say,

“You could never have scared me.”

 

Poems that sink into your skin like a sigil,

never to be forgotten again.  

Poems to be remembered on late nights,

when you can only describe

your fervor by singing it to the trees. 

 

Poems you write in the margins

of your notebooks and drawings.

Poems that feel like a mirror,

that describe that unfindable feeling in your chest. 

Poems that remember the thick August air,

and the cold ocean in summer. 

Poems in a language only you can read,

and poems that can only read you.