by lauren atkinson


im jealous of everyone and every thing that has your attention or is in your presence,

that’s not me

at any time

or any place.

I’ve resigned myself to knowing that at least a hair on your head has to have the space to move. And yet i’d be jealous of the wind that carries it, 

the eye that sees it out of place,

and your fingers, brushing that strand back into place.

If I could, i’d be all people,

everything you touch

I’d be all moments 

of every day to you.

But that’s a selfish thing of me to do,

and I’d never wish such things because of it.