To Possess
You were born with everything you need...
I’ve been told the body is mine—
to possess, to command, like a house
built from reclaimed wood and glass,
hearing the lock click
when you say "I have."
But every inch I claimed
slipped through the souls of ghosts,
haunting me from distant places.
I press my hands to warm walls,
they hum under my palms,
a language that sounds familiar.
I’ve held mirrors up, asked,
"Is this what it means to own?"
But possession folds into uncertainty,
more like a dull ache,
like loving something that refuses to be loved,
to belong to me.
Like trying to catch water in fists,
it spills and stains my shirt red,
yet still I'm so thirsty.
To possess is to touch the outline of form
by tracing it with your fingertips—
never the full shape,
never the entire sky.
I have loved like this:
in pieces, in fragments, whispering a prayer.
Never all at once.
Never enough.
You told me you’d stay
until I understood
how possession means keeping something
even when it can never be found.
Even when it slips under the door
in the middle of the night
without making a sound.
But my fists hurt from clenching air.
And I’m not sure anymore
what it is I thought I wanted.
Perhaps possession is this:
to want something so fiercely
you forget what life is like without it
and still, you wait for it to return
one day,
to rest,
close to touch,
if only for a moment,
before thought takes it away again.
