cold dirt: paper sun
I have spent a thousand pages
tracing the architecture of your shadow,
carving your name into the margins
until the paper bleeds.
I can paint your eyes with adjectives
that make the stars look dull,
and I can trap the way you tilt your head
in a cage of perfect syntax.
I can make the world weep for a girl
they have never even met.
But my pen is not a needle—
it cannot stitch your hand into mine.
I can describe the light on your skin,
but I cannot make it warm.
I can give you a thousand lives on the page,
immortal and shimmering,
yet in every one of them,
you are looking toward the exit.
It is a cruel kind of magic,
to be able to whip up a world where you are the sun
and I am just the cold, dark dirt you shine upon.