you wanted me to be the sky,
touching everything and impossible to reach.
turns out i am the storm
from which i drag my own shipwreck
kept in bottles lining the floor
along the skirting board
like an orderly armada of chaos.
in the morning the birds return
to the cloudless blue never ending days
circling your wildest dreams that i also am.
i am no soft corpse cobwebbed
to the kind of simplicity that most desire.
i contain a wild(er)ness.
i embrace the contradictions
and urge you to trust your gut,
trust your legs to take you there.
then reach, stretch on tip toes.
i am there, between your fingers.