The Sagittarius

To be Tangled

4/20/14

I remember planting my hands adjacent to your own unwittingly,

but keeping them there by virtue of how native you felt and I- inland,

while connecting the curves in your wrist.

It seemed like I'd haphazardly wandered an orchard's ends but instead of returning home,

I stayed to relish in floret growth and marvel their meshed roots;

oak-made and happy to be tangled in anything at all.

That's how I feel about you, but rather, I am not netted in just anything.

My fingers are snared in your chest's tendons like grapevines;

imploring the chasms that have never seen anything other than homespun spiderwebs.

Although, hours before I kissed you that night,

I walked when the sky was colored like cantaloupe.

And I took notice of the somewhat ugly shrubbery

(a sad excuse for greenery really), but I still condoled them.

It made me sad that they were the ones stuck in the ground while I was selfishly walking.

I thought that I should've been limited to a singular plot of earth instead of them.

But ever since, I have never been more enthroned to be coiled in your lungs rather than the chloroplast tears of a tree.

I am happy to be tangled in you at all.