you are water.
i can’t hold the shape
of what i feel around you.
not in my hands.
not in my chest.
not in any name
i try to give it.
you are a puddle
i want to jump in.
a storm
i want to stand in.
a swell
i would let crash into me.
and i know better
than to call this soft.
water breaks stone
by returning.
again.
and again.
and again.
it hollows the canyon
without ever raising its voice.
and that is what you do to me.
not ruin.
not mercy.
something older.
you drown the shape i was,
then return me
gasping,
not saved,
not spared,
new.