Do not think
I am nothing more
than the garbs
upon my shoulders.
Nor am I the hair that settles
against my painted cheeks.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholders
but trust that I am not my eyes
or the mouth that speaks.

I think I am the wind
or I want to be.
Yearning on windows ridden
by a cool summer night–begging to be let in
to embrace the sleepers and banish their heat.
Maybe I am the crosswalk countdown
or at the very least, I am the sound of children
scuffling their shoes on a busy sidewalk
in impatience to cross the street.

But regardless of what I am
it is certainly not up to you.