I’m sorry I didn't mean to step on
your lap but I was just trying
to sit on the benches you love
but I like sitting on the grass
better and I like looking at your view
with you
even if that means I’m sitting
down here
where our glances both see
the lake of this hill
differently.
I wrote of loving
for fear of our faces
And I still believe
our love
is of this reflection
Because I want to sit with
you but feel all anxious
on the firm wood slats and
instinctually move
away—but my motion rumples
your feathers tickling your
skin as a sign of something
I did not know the language
to express
I didn’t mean to say it but I have
and that scratches at me
like haunting prickles of
needles in the grass


Its the feeling of trying
to squeeze through
two people and realizing
halfway through that your butt
bumbles into them and even
though the silence of your
movements was all you ever
hoped for you cant help
but be embarrassed by the
implications of your genetics on
the reach of your body on others
How can I accept this flesh
as how I am shaped in the universe
and also know when it is
my responsibility to change it
to better my flesh for those around me?
How can I—
When I look up at you
I realize its not this space
that holds the feeling
it is in looking up at you
that writes of my meaning,
I am trying to see
better the lake and the hill
from down here
in my own way so that
you can still see up there
and I can understand
our view
better.

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