i do not understand the birth of fireflies,
let me pretend to be a recycled poet instagramming chunked typewriter ink,
her smile is like a flower. the rain is gentle fingers,
let me count the ways
i think you're so cool
and i don't understand it, this language feels swollen on my tongue now,
feels stumbled and antique and good.
speaking of tongues,
i wanna show you something.
see, the way you looked back there, all faded freckles and eyelashes,
you seemed like an awfully inviting road to get stuck on.
when i say that i don't understand the birth of fireflies i mean
when do they start to glow?
i wanna make you pancakes
and i wanna make you confused too.
these green roots,
these kickup feelings,
your knuckles covered in ash and somewhere
deep in my chest,
there's a church fire raging.
all the people gather on their front lawns,
they watch with the orange glow cast on their face, silent,
they're watching the flames,
they're holding hands,
they're holding hands.