dragonfly heart by Starlie Tugade

i overheard a boy talking to his sister as i sat, trying to fall in love with my words. 

she… she was a wild girl. 

tsunami eyes and a dragonfly heart, 

dandelions growing in the cracks of her ribcage, 

she was a danger to everything pure, 

at least in my mind. 

at first glance she was nothing more than beat-up converse 

and a pair of ratty jeans, red hair glowing in the sun. 

but then she drew a perfect star on my wrist 

matching her own and i saw it all 

the way she crossed her fingers and prayed at every 11:11 

her eyes as the moon rose, no distractions, just awe 

a future of twirling and chasing her through fields 

my hand wiping smudged mascara off her cheek as we left the hospital how her body shook for months in the shower 

i saw it all, ‘cause her skin was soft as she held my hand, 

and all those worries of impurity? 

i didn’t think of them again, not ‘til now. 

it’s her fault that i understand that old couple in paris now, 

why they crossed the world at 80, 

lugged bags over cobblestone streets, practically breaking their backs just for five minutes of eiffel tower sparkles 

like when they were 17 and head over heels. 

remember i mocked them?

everything here is to teach you how to love 

but i already knew how to love. 

except i hadn’t wanted to pick anyone flowers from gardens we walked past, hadn’t wanted to cradle someone’s fingertips, memorize the details of a handprint and track the ways ours intertwined. 

that paris couple lived the love i never thought i wanted. 

except i found it, 

heart beating double time, dragonfly wings. 

i found it, eyes overwhelmingly blue. 

i found it every time she wished on a dandelion. 

i never asked if she wished for us.