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if someone asked me to compose a list

of things that make me want to breathe, 

i’d seal my lips shut and point my finger

at you.

(i’d say that you’re my pen and

paper.)

i could name so many things,

could name iced coffees; or the way snow looks

when no one’s stepped on it yet.

i could name canals and kisses on cheeks,

melted chocolate and freshly mowed grass,

sleepy good mornings and whispered good nights.

but if someone asked me to compose a list,

i’d point in your direction, say:

 “if you really want to know.

(what drains the fear from my bones,

puts colour back where it is)

if you really want to know; it’s her.”

because i don’t always appreciate

sunsets and sometimes

i prefer my world in black and white

but if anyone could, it’s you --

(you’re the rope that pulls me out of the sand,

when the ground swallows me up, your hand 

will pull me back into my own head)

so if someone asked me to compose a list,

i’d accept the pen and just write down your name

because you manage to fix me 

every day.

(because you feel like home to me.)