If I write to you at night,

It’s white letters on a black sky,

Just like the stars that spell my heart.

And if I say that I am vile

And you are virtuous,

It’s just the all-or-nothing think

I get from being Cherokee,

The only way I know 

To be comparative.

My linguistic battle to say

That you are better than I am 

At so many things.

But if I write to you in day,

My letters will be blue,

Drops of rain that fall into clouds

From somewhere even higher up.

They fill the clouds with dripping dew

Until the clouds must rain down, too,

And fall on you first, for you are high,

And I am low, and I will love you, always,

And never break your heart.

-jenn