and spring, i feel,
is something of a certainty.
winter had come, but i saw no snow.
what is there, really,
if one’s “destined to know?”
i’ve had moments veiled to another’s soul
which cried out to be fulfilled.
i am not in chains,
my heart races,
(i see you, oliver, in other faces)
and find taste between my splintered graces.
yet i still can’t tell if it’s real.