continuing my i’m into this girl and it’s dumb but i’m writing poetry because she makes me feel things thing


this is called “things being”:

rustle my leaves. you are
one of few i trust
to push me
without knocking me
over. be the wind
that sways my branches.

shift beneath my
toes. uncertainty
is all that can be
counted on, i’ve
learned. be the grains
of sand that stand
but relaxed
and carry me across
the surface.

wash over me.
i know you
and i am weightless
despite the stones
i carry. be the sea
that salts my skin
and drifts my body
into oblivion.