i don’t have the words to tell you
about the cacophony of
feelings that tiptoe to me
in the rain,
in the dark,
in between the pages of books.
i’m a writer so i should know
how to talk about feelings by now-
almost all of my poems are about sadness
but sometimes i still struggle to paint
words into constellations
that will make sense to you.
i have secrets buried deep,
but i didn’t keep the treasure maps.
i’m not sure when the boardwalk was built
above my little nests of unspoken words
but now i walk,
gently, bare feet
brushing against the sandpapered wood.
i walk along the boardwalk of my heart,
i feed quarters of self-doubt into
and watch memories appear
in the binocular hollows.
i sit on a rusted bench,
i’ve forgotten what i’m waiting for but