fingertips, neither of us had one that chose eternity

but to hell with all that.

I look at you and think this is it.

This is it for me.

A warm house that smells like desire.

Your voice, waltzing with steam in the kitchen.

My hand steady on the knife, all tender and no hurt.

BLUE SKY LOVE, I SING YOU HAPPY

I know you like I know music, like I know the melody

that arrives in my chest when I’m lost within the

noise. The moments between us when speech is

inconceivable have filled me like a balloon — I could

float forever on the songs we’ve left to reflex.

If I’d known that the smoke of heartache led to you

I would’ve put on running shoes and barreled through

it headfirst. Dipped into the well of youth and put out

the fire instead of taking a year to warm my hands in

it. Sometimes I love you so much that it spills

out of my mouth and onto the floor like an oil slick,

our reflection dancing in the blackness like a dream.

Lately I’ve been clutching “this time” to my chest like

a blessing. “This time” I won’t throw a rug over the

marks on the floor. “This time” it’ll be remarkable in

its simplicity. Like the sound of our bedroom door

groaning its way into openness. The knowledge

that you’ve come back to bed to kiss me goodbye.

Oh, how I think about kissing you.

About the taste of your breath, hot and alive.

Sometimes I want to swallow you whole, unhinge my

jaw and imagine a happiness that would ensure you’ll

never leave me, that I’ll never want you to go but how

could I? How could I when you’re the reason I have

materials to build with?

Everything I’ve written for the past two years has

been about love, which means it’s all been about you,

in some way, and what I’ve learned about love

is that I didn’t know what the hell it looked like

until you picked it out of a crowd and introduced me.

I could write my hands to ruin and still never capture

the timbre of your laughter after midnight

or the way I cry in the shower over the hearts you’ve

drawn in the steam. I could dedicate every poem I

ever write to you and it wouldn’t be enough.

It just wouldn’t be enough to express the joy I’ve

experienced through being loved well by you.

By loving you so loudly that anyone who has a

conversation with me leaves knowing your name.

When I tell you that I love you I mean

I have never once wondered what would happen if we

were to part. I have never planned for a future that

didn’t include you.

When I tell you that I love you I mean