X,

I could tell you that I'd have to stand on tip toes to reach your lips. That once I remove the heels that connect me to the skyline, clicking my presence into pavement, I'm small enough to fit inside blankets and arms.

I could tell you that the fear used to come in waves so strong I couldn't move, but lately I'm brave and bold like ice. Lately, I glide, moving fast but thinking slow, wings outstretched as if to fly to you.

I could tell you that sometimes I feel like the butterflies my mom hatches in her nursery school classroom; all of them, at once. That pieces of me are painting the sky with purple, and pieces of me crawl on the ground by your feet, and pieces of me are still stirring in their cocoons, waiting for the right moment to break free.

And maybe that's the point. That I could tell you so many things. But they'd really only be pieces. Pieces of a road map, a dark sky with a single visible star; an ocean, a compass, pointing you my way.

Hannah Miet