Silent Tantrums

Photo by Lia on Unsplash

Stillness collects in a puddle.
Drip. Ripple. Repeat.
Leaves need no instruction.

I make boats out of paper
until they become cranes
large enough to fly us away

to where there is a sky
so rich and full of adjectives
that I’d love to tell you

all about it.
Except I can’t seem to locate
a one.

We make love in a morning
we pretend is like the others.
Devoid of introduction,

yet there is not enough space
for us to stop
suffocating each other.

Realization creates
a new space, no more
confined than its residents.

I howl to the salted moon
at 8 pm to decimate remains
of who I thought I was.

Taking your hand in mine,
we make press-folds over lines
that exist only in my mind.