I thought of writing you a song 

in a tired repetition 

of the words I meant to sing you all along 

but never did. 



I have some great appreciation 

for lunar tides and roses 

and my heart always intends to beat for you 

but rarely does. 



Well, here are fingers 

that have reached for 

anything they've wanted; 

how often have they broken in the door? 

And here are wings that I unfolded 

at the bottom of an ocean 

and wondered how I never left the floor. 



I always gravitate toward comfort 

but I'd kill for my convictions 

so long as you don't ever make me move. 

You always do. 



I guess I'm sick of building bridges 

over six inches of water 

so when I can barely breathe for me, 

will you?