Some days your soul is
a small glass box I want
to fit into. Other days
you’re the house with
blue walls I’ve been living in
for years.
I want to know why sometimes
we are as close as drops
of water, sometimes untouchable
as shadows, sometimes like the
same word, softly
spoken.
I want to know what music
our bodies are moving
to. I want to know the names
of your freckle constellations.
Sometimes I think that there is no
history, only love.
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