Stammer

His warmth

is a lit match

grazing close.

I recoil

like the tiny wisps
on the tip of a cotton wick —

afraid to be ignited and

keeling over

from the memory 

of splendor —

trying so hard to fight it.

Heaps

I’m floating on saltwater

my hands the weakest oars

splintered with stinging words

sickened by the steady tumble

light swish and heavy drop

my stomach clenched tight

I look up high but

clouds loom each night

and shroud the North Star.

"Don’t stop now!"

they tell me.

"You've come so far."