GreyBean

we are not beautiful for our skin and faces—
we are beautiful for our bones and minds,
brittle they can be.

soap suds run down my fingers. 
we are nothing, yet 
everything
at all. 

i hope he sees me—

you watched me cry,
seeds running in narrow
rivulets down my cheeks. 
we are swollen
like bright pearls scraping along the edge of a  
                  shell;

He makes tea when he tries to have 
conversations with himself. They never
end the way he wants them to. 
Instead he leaves the world
for crinkling leather books,
tries to draw in coffee-stained notebooks. 

I met him inside a library 
on a rainy day in May. 
He wore all black
and was reading one of the classics. 
He reminded me of autumn —
brisk, cool, 
mysterious. 
His room, I imagined,

you lied to me
and i think you know it. 

yes—i am angry. 
i am frustrated. 
i feel 
excluded
and
taken for
granted. 

i am 
not
always going to be there. 

i.
roses and roses,
that’s all you see. 
you laugh at the way
the moon rises —
so romantically. 
letters and 
sweaters,
dreams and 
cloudy streams. 
you look like the sunrise —