super tired first Hampshire nightwrite

My muscles are tired from crying, from lack of sleep, from laughter as the katy-dids outside pretend they are birds and I stare at my life piled in the corner of the room, wondering if it's always been such a mess but the room was so big I didn't notice. I notice now like my fingertips notice the stubble on your cheek and my hands realize they're probably never going to grow any longer. I had my palm read once, in the back of a classroom, but now I'm staring at the place where the land turns to sky, amazed that it's claimed its own identity, sure more than ever that I am part of the horizon. My lips are turning blue because I blew you so many kisses I ran out of air, swallowed leaves like they were nothing at all and pretended I was a tree, a maple, a sugar maple because all I want is to taste like something you'll remember, watch myself dissolve on your tongue and forget that I could ever be measured. I'm leaving my window open at night so I can learn what it is to be cold, but the ice never falls and all the snowflakes have already melted rivers into my veins, stained the last ninety-six pages and realized something has shifted and nothing will ever be the same except my heartbeat and the katy-dids and the sugar beneath my skin.