Small Things (A Poem)

I like small things.

And things that don’t matter.

Little intricacies.

Peaceful, quiet juxtapositions.

I like intersections of nothingness.

Wild, intense monotony.

Peaceful suddenness.

And quiet delight.

Small surprises.

Intense normalness.

I like the intersection of yellow and a faded blue.

I like seeing two doves sitting on a tree.

I like slight smiles and small words of meaning.

I like blank pages.

And pages with one word.

I like short books.

And books that are so long and wonderful that you can’t possibly figure make sense of them.

I like morning light.

And the sound of a distant dove in the middle of a city walk.

I like when my pointy shoes intersect with square pavement.

And walking through parks alone.

Daring to sit on benches I’ve never sat on before.

And writing books that might only be read by me.

I like white daisies.

And lines in movies that no one cares about.

I like poems no one gets.

And the laugh of one person rising above others.

I like how the same door slams shut obnoxiously without fail.

And how the last blossom left on a tree dares to make itself known in the spring.

I like meaningful conversations with strangers I’ll never meet again.

Sudden hugs.

And small daffodils on my walk home.

These things I find dear.

I like small things.


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