thoroughly untalented justwrite

Piles of books wait at my feet while the windchimes outside seem farther away than your footsteps, watching the children in my memories build sandcastles and wait for the waves to take them. There are letters on my palms and letters that I can't see on my eyelids. I wonder how hands so small can hold so much and my pinkies shrink faster than you thought they would, lines forming on my face like a field ready for seed or right after harvest, the bones of corn stalks half-covered in the mud, turning to dust faster than my thoughts. There are too many people counting too loudly. I can hear them when I sleep and I forget why I exist, stare into my reflection like a waiter stares at the traffic light outside, trying to decipher its color. The world is black and white with no ecotones in between, but my roots find the sky and my names come to life on your lips, sound like poems made from broken lines and broken plates, a mosaic I can't forget, clumsy fingers inventing puzzles and explaining why I have to stand in this square and close my eyes and know nothing except that I know nothing. On cold mornings, there are sweaters and mugs full of hot chocolate and at least one sock, a stranger sitting alone but not waiting for anyone, a shadow on the floor. I step through myself and expect to be smaller but find only that I have twelve thousand pages left and not knowing how many those will take away. When you whisper these words, I want to give up because I love them so much.