And So I Refrain

she talks to me about the paper snowflakes she plans to make this weekend, and so i refrain from telling her that my bedroom has been decorated since the day after thanksgiving. 

she tells me about the boy in her math class whose eyes look like exploding constellations, and so i refrain from telling her that i can fold up a heart into a swan. 

she insists that the dress she’s going to wear to formal makes her look like persephone’s long lost daughter in the spring, and so i refrain from telling her that i don’t know how to twist my body in a way that other people will understand. 

she claims that she feels so alone in a sea of people who would bend to their knees for her, and so i refrain from telling her that i have never been comfortable enough to float on my back in the very same waters. 

she mentions that her straw hair smells like lemons and roses, and so i refrain from telling her that people have started to tell me my hair defines my heart. 

she maintains her position on the likelihood of the stars falling like raindrops as she passes by, and so i refrain from telling her that sometimes i feel like the wind cannot carry my scent and the earth cannot bear my footsteps. 

she talks to me about how she can draw in a crowd simply by acknowledging the sun in the sky, and so i refrain from telling her that i doubt that my fingers will ever brush another’s hand and i will be kissed as tenderly as the blinding snow caresses my cheeks.