There is a myth that says
every nervous storm has a whisper at its center
that even lightning has a ribcage,
that tornadoes have inner eyes and
fingers that are too wild to touch gently,
so they do not touch at all;
that waves break because they're trying to take a breath
and hold it long enough to imagine stillness.
There are trees in our lungs
writing jet fuel into exhalations
and accidental prayers.
Do not hesitate to sing to them;
they are listening with their whispers,
they grow alphabet-shaped,
lovely in their fumbling,
too busy looking up to care about tangling
or losing touch with the ground –
they know it's there.
Sounds only exist when silence gets excited
and flings itself into chance.
Your words know how to dance,
how to curl into telescopes that only point inward,
how to turn into storms that swallow calm.
You are a legend.
A/N: This is actually untitled, but I don't believe in titling pieces "untitled," so there you have it. I wrote this piece months and months ago for a girl. It didn't work out. Turned out she was real, and I was, at the time, seeking a fiction. It was one of those spontaneous late-night unfiltered poems. It's a little bitter but it kept me awake all the same.