i’m not always gonna love you, and that's okay

i’m not always gonna love you,

and that's okay.

because you (the memory)

are roses i can pluck

and feel no thorn

pricking my fingers.

the fond thought of you lives

in the sugar-sour kiss of strawberry,

the bitter, paradoxically addictive green of matcha,

and in the museum�"before

the plate-backed skeleton of a stegosaur (you

dinosaur nerd.)

and my eyes will never forget

how much bluer

the sky looked

when you were under it.

what a luxury it is

to own a garden

where no grave waits for me

to mourn.

though i know

i can't always keep my heart open

for you,

and that someone else

will find their way in

(and i'll make room),

it’ll always be full,

knowing you once passed through that door.

and so

i unclench my hands,

once hopefully clasped in prayer,

and, in betrayal of no one,

not even myself,

i stop whispering

for a miracle.