or: these small things I love will carry me through

your Saturday morning bedhead, eyes still sticky with sleep / the realism of my childhood fiction / lemongrass on the first day of May / the satisfaction of a perfect origami crease / John Denver’s Poems, Prayers & Promises swelling in the air / ancient snowglobe collections blanketed by a thin layer of dust / dead hopes of loving the wrong person that don’t haunt me anymore / a dog-eared, years-loved paperback of Frankenstein / dimpled babies with full lifetimes brimming in front of them / storms that leave us restless / pressed azaleas tucked neatly into white envelopes to travel long distances / the strange texture of lavender petroleum jelly / a hot drink burning all the way down / the mere idea of expensive French cheese and wine to accompany it / native wildflowers and local honey / piles of half-full journals and forever-unfinished scrapbooks / how I can’t quite turn any of this to poetry, but / that I still try /

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