foermont for lisa

I envy you, that you feel,
that you feel.

Even my blankets
show more emotion than I, and only this
gives me warmth.

As such, in a night full of stars,
I can only be indignant at
the spaces between them; or pretend I am
— remember clearly, I envy you.

But so does the moon,
with its phases as volatile, bright,
and temporarily-enchanted.

I envy that you feel,
that you feel,

when I am like the wilderness;
like a desert so vast that I might dream to contain you —
draw in me with delicate fingers,
one sun at a time, dear stranger,

that I might be filled with art and song
that all shall vanish upon the slightest whisper
of wind.

— A. P.

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