Birthday Poem for @blckpinkmilk : I'm going to write about her. Go beyond drawing cursive scribbles in pink marker, in the pages of my books, when I first bought them. I'm going to use words not well enough, to describe a sensation too big for me. Spell a feeling wrongly, in an attempt to say what I'm thinking. She will give me art, leave me with little to say, nowhere to mark off the end of my praise. Unsure of what it is I did to deserve, more than I've ever got, I'll read her messages all over again, looking for a spot of, doubt. But that's not what she's about. So, when I think of my favorite drinks, I think of her. Sweet things that remind me of what I've needed but rarely had before. I want to be there for her, and, be seen all the same. She's for the type of people who get happy when it rains, stick their tongues out and laugh, and strain, their shirts of the cold. She's the type that makes it hard to get rid of my clothes, see something the color of rose and think I can't be relieved of those, cut it up in an attempt to remake them all, look down at my legs, see perhaps I'm tall. When the sun shines and beams, I think she's what I need. She's the shades of the trees, protecting me from the heat. She will not lie, she will see, read the lines of the earth, the call of the sea, direct the world towards me, dig these holes for my feet, where I cannot make plans to, be relieved. Her heart, that beating thing, has its marks, on all my belongings. In the hobbies I, find myself free, flowing between, within the mumblings, of my skin etchings, beside my smile in the crackling day breathings. She is all, she is who, a piece of my heart, belongs to. In messiness, in nestling.