‘i wonder if Love wears bedroom slippers in the evening’

one of the many things
difficult about writing a poem
about love is how alike
love poems look.

2nd person pronoun verb
article superlative
noun first person pronoun
adverb verb
, most likely.

i guess part of the problem
is that words on a ‘page’

be it in a book or browser tab

always look like words on a page.

and love, well
she’s a mover and a shaker.
not only does she rarely ‘look’
like love, it can often be difficult
to identify her at all.

i am changing a dirty diaper – chore
i am changing you, sweet girl,
so you don’t get a rash and because
you cannot yet do this for yourself – love

a miracle, i would say, that two things can be
one
but anyway, i’m digressing.

i want to write a poem
that shows the love i see
in you
and it is impossible.

maybe, darling, that’s because
how you love is impossible
beyond what should and should not be
as if mountains could also be
the roaring sea at the same time.

your love is a miracle
because it is who you are
it is your breath it is your skin
it is how you move, and so
you do not even realize,
i think
how powerfully you love.

anyway,

your love matters.

it matters to me,
it makes me better,
it is the kind of thing,
your love
that makes the world
well,
it is the kind of love that makes the world.

it gives me hope
everywhere else
that a love like yours
exists at all.

your love shakes the earth
with quiet steps.

i hear them
i feel them
thank you for being,

- yours.

she is not made to be quiet, Love

Love entered the room through double doors

as minglers mingled quietly
mumbling into crystal glasses
filled with empty reds and bubbling whites

Beautiful blues scanned the crowd of minglers drowning in mahogany and choking on their echoes beneath a vaulted ceiling

She made eye contact with the room at once, as only Love can do, and spoke at full volume without raising her voice.

she didn’t say anything but i don’t think she’s much of a talker

i whispered softly to the wind
as she fluttered through your hair
as i pressed my lips to your neck and
i cannot tell you what i asked of her
that would be rude however
i can give you a hint or a
nudge in the right direction
ok fine i’ll just tell you i
asked her to carry your scent to me
on days we are far apart so that i
may remember you always.

it’s a metaphor, folks

they were sitting in a parked car.

they faced away from each other and her arms were crossed.

his hands were in his lap.

they love each other, these two,
by the way, it’s just
their posture exhibits differently
once in a while.

what’s so amazing he said
eyes holding steady on the side-view mirror
is that the fire never goes out.

she nodded silently
a quarter inch of affirmation
and he sensed the movement.

every time i think the fire
has burned itself to embers
glowing in the dark,

he paused and turned to her
his shoulders and the muscles of
his upper back pressed against the
seat as his weight shifted.

he watched the curve in her neck
as he spoke, she she still held her eyes
up and away and to the right.

her breathing pattern changed
and he heard it and saw the
dip in her posture
that practically screamed i love you, too,
i am listening, please continue.

something stokes what i thought was ash
maybe i catch your scent again or
i see the way you look at me and
flames again lick the night sky
towering over 
silhouettes of pines and oak
drowning out the moon and stars
and . . . well. you know. 

and it never stops. 
it is a fire that burns 
and instead of running out of fuel
and heat this inferno only 
grows and i hope that’s ok
with you.

it *is* cider season

i spent the last twenty minutes

desperate

to write for you a poem

and sew us even closer together

through my use of imagery

but i was a little too hungry

and distracted by the

crunch of german pronunciation

(i’m in class right now)

to build for you

verses you deserve

so i’ll improvise and say

let us be an orchard

tucked away in rolling hills

and as the sun sets west of us

and our apples catch her last light

before the moon borrows

sun’s dress for the night

and keeps us company

together, you and me

an orchard in green rolling hills

alive and smelling of fall

and the way we always smell

when the sun is in our hair

or leaves, i guess, to keep up with my metaphor

together.

i’m ok being your boutique

i thought i should tell you that i rather enjoy

the more and more i know you

and you come to know me

when what ‘should’ happen is

the bell above the door crinkles upon our entrance and

we make our way among the aisles of each other and

we find cracks or

excuse me the fabric bunches here or

the color here it’s faded now that i look closely or

wait is it supposed to sound like that i’m not so sure

that never happens what happens is
oh yes i am even more sure
this is what i want this is
what i came in here for
no i don’t need the receipt
i will not be making any returns.