“Consider this:
we fuck with the lights on.
You trace the flat shape of my breasts when I lay down.
We keep the windows open because the rain
smells like the closest
we’ve ever been to Heaven.
We watch the ferns drip
like they’re heavy with honey.
I cut red peppers in the kitchen.
You put on every song
we’ve ever fallen in love to.
I’m beginning to lose the difference
between our skin.
I’m cold when you’re shivering.
I ache when you’re lonely.
I can feel the warmth in your pink, fluttering heart,
and I hold it in my hands.”
Andrea Gibson, from Lord of the Butteflies; “What do you think about this weather?”
[Text ID: “I feel that sometimes when I’m writing poems—like they don’t yet fit. Do you ever feel like the best of you is something you’re still hoping to grow into?”]
