I don’t want us to be a poem. I want it to be longer and jarring and hands on my spine. Fingers in my vertebrae. Have you ever felt that? The absorption plan. Until our bodies aren’t just you and me. That maybe there’s a word out there in the universe that’s more than “us”.
Wouldn’t that be sweet. We could be a short narrative. A prose poem with paragraphs of stanzas and pillow talk when your words fall short and roll into my mouth. I can taste them. I can taste you.
But I’ve only written one novel. It turned out fine. I’m still working on it. Working. If I were to start with you. It would go like I miss you. Already. And I like when you say come here when I really want to curl up into my hair and disappear. But when you say come here the feeling dissipates. You say it so softly.
It’s everything. Snow. Early mornings in your car when you laugh at my sleepy eyes. When you had to ask me on two dates because I didn’t know how to say yes the first time. Your head on my stomach. It’s knowing how to care for me. Teaching me how to care for you. Ain’t that a sweet thing.