i.
the sun rising in the east,
setting in the west,
our fingers intertwined
your palm against mine
it sits in my chest
weight of a bowling ball
my heart is the pin
(and you're not bad a player)
ii.
it's written in the books,
playing in the chorus of my favourite songs,
tied to the strings that line my pockets,
the scratched road signs leading me home
the tear on my sofa
where the zipper of your jacket
once got caught in the frills (it was new)
words unsaid,
hanging on the delicate ends of tension
— filling the space between us
I can't change the constants
I wish I could