I write prose sometimes.
Prose doesn't have to rhyme.
It doesn't need rhythm.
Just thoughts on a page.
Stumbling on my own meaning.
I forget that I am bleeding.
But it can't hide like poetry can.
it means i can drink my coffee even in the summer.
it means i can climb the tallest tree, despite how they've warned me. promising as i go that I'll come back down someday after i have been all scraped up and learned my lesson.
i don't know even my own intentions.
i am without wings.
i once dared to close my eyes
to step out the door blind.
i could have sworn you were there to catch me
but the bruises on my knees are proof:
this world was meant for people who can see clearly.
pen and paper are the only weapons
i could ever use against you.
and even then, i couldn't bear to hurt you.
instead i write about juvenile things you don't understand
my romantic notions of fingertips and rainstorms and coffee
and i pray you could be impressed with it,
if nothing to do with me.
i only write for you, darling.
Every morning I am reminded:
Today is not the day you love me again.
gets me through it.