jo

There is this sadness in knowing — knowing how kind you are, how effortlessly funny you are, how patient you are with my messiness, how that hair flourishes abundantly, how you looked at someone you just met, how your hands move, and the little mannerisms. The sorrow of knowing is not being able to look away, even when you look straight at me. Not being able to stop grasping for more. Not being able to be careless about what travels within your mind when you think of me.

Honey, everything you touch turns gold. You make things feel like they're golden. My name, which I hated most for it bore a scheme of my roots, was forgiven the moment you mentioned it. My hair, uncontrollable fragment was tied for you and you looked at it. My face, whom I considered a nemesis, became an ally as soon as you recognized it.  My shoulders, who was a vessel of belongings became fragile the second you tapped it.