His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him.

If you asked me, I would say my love is loud. Constant. My love is a child running up and down the aisles of sense. It is hopeful and glad and unyielding. It is everything I have ever wished for, standing perfectly still. In this poem, I am myself. In this poem, I am grateful, curious, empathetic. Tomorrow I am someone else. Tomorrow I am the version of myself that I have been building for years. The unkind, selfish, untruthful me. But today, in this poem, I am me. When we fell in love, I stopped thinking that I was a bad person. In this poem, I am forgiving. I cry. I am the perfect woman. In this poem, you are a clock, counting down to my next break.

she tells me about her dreams. in them, I am a destroyer. I am not the one who picks her daisies but dyes them black. she tells me about her dreams. in them, she is someone violent. she throws the glass bottle and it hits a four-year old version of herself. i don’t know what this means but she kisses me like she can’t forget it.