you and i.

You and I
are a collection of moments,
a series of looks and brushing fingers
and lips cut on the words
that you struggled with
and I never said at all.

You and I
hardly knew what we had coming
and though you're going up in smoke
and I'm painting you into my watercolor dreams,
we get by.

You and I
are seven minutes too late,
two fireflies caught in a jar,
and a dandelion wish that might have come true,
but differently than I had expected.

Because I
wish I would write more
about how you smell
and how soft your eyes are,
like beds of damp leaves in autumn.
About how I am a bird,
but you fill my hollow bones
and make me too heavy.

Because you
don't understand about birds,
or trees, or dandelion wishes at all.
Because you are all ones and zeros,
and I am lost in the cold winter of your dark room.