not a real poet

You ask me when we are five years old– “How long does it take for a person to fall in love?” And I wrinkle my nose, and I shrug, and I stick out my tongue. Because that isn’t a question I am interested in answering. You ask me when we are ten years old– “Do you think people really fall in love?” And I take your hand and compliment your skirt (though it’s identical to mine). Because you shouldn’t have to worry about your parents when you’re a kid. You ask me when we are fifteen years old– “Don’t I deserve to fall in love?” And tears stream down a beautiful face, as I brush back strands of soft hair. Because of a boy who didn’t deserve such a fiercely gentle girl in his life. You ask me when we are eighteen years old– “Do you think it’s fun, to fall in love?” And I smile, silent your side warm against mine my heart warm, but pained. Because of course, of course it is fun but sometimes it is just not yours to have. You ask me when we are twenty years old– “When do you think we’ll fall in love?” And my chest is tight and I say “I’ll let you know.” And I am lying. Because I did not tell you, because you hadn’t fallen in love yet. You ask me when we are thirty years old– “How long did it take for you to fall in love?” And I smile, as rain thrums steadily, and your fingers are laced with mine. And I say,“You asked me, when we were five years old.”

Earth does such things to itself: furrowing, cracking apart, bursting into flame. It rips openings in itself, which it struggles (or not) to skin over. The moon doesn’t care about its own craters and bruises. Only we can regret the perishing of the burned place. Only we could call it a wound.