I try very hard to not be a romantic person.
I find myself caught up
in slow dances and strings of lights and much too optimistic ideas.
I yearn to skip through the stars,
swing from the trees,
catch snowflakes on my tongue.
But stars are just burning balls of gas,
I am not strong enough to swing,
and direct precipitate is just… unsanitary.
So I will avoid the cracks on the sidewalks,
and avoid touching the handrails when going downstairs.
I enclose myself in concrete structures,
and try not to wonder of beautiful things;
I force myself to believe
that love and lovely things won’t come.
But then again, I am a poet.