beck and call

I firmly believe that God made me so tiny
because my personality announces its presence so easily.
As a result, my heart has never learned how to forget naivete.

Ever since I was a little girl, I caught rays of hope between my fingers
and stubbornly clung onto its fading light the same way I did with fireflies.

Nowadays, my heart aches a little less every time
I watch you slip through my fingers like quicksand,
because my feelings have become karst topography
and I am tired of trying to patch sinkholes you make.

I admit that I still have days where I fall asleep
with your memory tucked firmly underneath my pillowcase like a baby tooth
so an angel can take you away and replace you with a quarter-blue-moon,
but the lunar lady was full tonight, and I'm not sure that God
is willing to wax and wane the same way your inhibitions do.

Even now, there are grooves of optimism carved into your dimples
and worry lines on your forehead. I can't kiss away either. I find
the only thing I have left to do is lay my mouth on your eyelids
and hope that you don't remember how my lips taste when you wake up,
because I am sick of writing you love poems.