indecisiveness.

I’m blind to the cracks in our foundation. The way they teetered me into you and I’d feel your shoulders under my fingertips. I have the problem of never making up my mind and losing something either way — like when I can’t decide if I should buy bananas or berries at the store. If I buy both, one will rot. My sister is either a creature of habit or a creature of consequence. My mother never makes choices, but when she does, the decisions smile knowing she wanted them all along. I get it honest. When God touched my head signaling breath he hiccuped. I’ve known choices, but have never been able to make them. Other people make sandcastles, but I let the ocean strands fall through my fingers; all grainy syrup, nothing solidified. I used to press clovers into spines of books and take them out only to see, not their beauty, but decay. The first boy I thought I loved, we used to drive around drinking coffee from green straws. When he told me he loved me, deciding to love him back was too much. Choices are confirmations. Prayers over night to be the person you’ve always wanted. It’s the consummation of a path in life, and the will to step. I make more decisions I wish I hadn’t than ones I wish I had.

But I don’t regret my decision with you.

My heart stretches at my ribs when I think of your shoulders and the way they connect to your arms, connecting to your hands. The choice they make to touch me. It’s not your fault for the cracks under my feet and the instability that comes with genetic neutrality.