To be your smile and not afraid
when it goes. To be the breath heard
after four days of troubled reconciliation.
To be the thought coming before
that you still ignore because really it's
just filler space
to make this desire more real.
To be your coaster on the wood table,
to feel this residual warmth fading away.
To be your shadow now unattended
and to be OK with it because the sun is up
only half the day.
To be that book turned to page 43 because
sometimes you wish to become air, and take
no shape because there is inborn defiance
against the pressure to be rational.
To be the ask for the reason why, and then
to be the answer afterwards, tossed
in the shrubbery when you aren't looking.
