we always talk in metaphor,
romanticizing what we don’t have words for.
pretending that a picture can say more
than what our mouths can pour.
I’m cynical in thinking, that love is inexplicable,
a despicable romantic, worthy of the wait.
I speak this way but all that’s ever saved me is breath and love, and diligence.
there are no other substitutes or vitamins as culprits for how healthy I’ve become.
in spite of broken bones I walk on stilts pretending I can hover over every misconception that has ever opened up itself as a lover or a friend.