Sta.sh
i. I mistook a shy boy for a thunderous one in the days when I lived inside his lungs.
ii. I wanted your hands in the early morning, or in 8 o' clock light. (Does it matter? I just wanted you.) Hands like paper cranes, hands like wind chimes. Then we could've been like lovers in a parody: "I love you, I love you—no, I don't. But you are beautiful." And while I was not your lover, neither was I your queen. Either way, you wouldn't hold my heart.
iii. Our fingers would've taken flight and then the rest of us, too. Then you would've known of the ballroom in my chest, the migrations inside my body, of the tiny secret nothings that make their way like monarchs—as if by instinct, as if they have been here before—from ballroom to piano hands to the museum that is my mind to my stomach. But you are the only lost boy afraid to fly.
iv. I was a foreign land and you would not dare travel without a map. But I do not possess a souvenir shop in which to purchase one. I am a destination and not a stop along the road, and if you come to me, you stay, and that is why you never had to leave.
v. I took strange for wondrous and unknowable for mysterious. I thought that shyness was sweet and strength was beauty.
vi. I am the only one who will have my heart.
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Yes. Completely. I understand because I am there, waiting in the 8 o'clock morning light.
Your little words are like honey.