It almost feels wrong
to turn you into poetry —
to distill each layer
of what makes you, you
into a string of words
with vague meanings
and suggestions.

Yet, you are poetry,
like me and them and them.

We are particles
of light,
of stardust,
of dirt
in the form of human bodies.

We are an accumulation
of thoughts,
of love,
of misunderstandings
as individuals with private minds.

I could write more,
but my ability to place words
like “you” and “I” is faltering.
There is no “us” nor “we”
in the same sentence —
at least not how they linger
in the sparkle of my eyes
and taste in my mouth.