I asked you to read to me.
(I always ask them to read to me.)
(There's something about the way their fingers flip the pages
and their lips linger on certain letters
and their unique strategies of correcting themselves
when they stutter or mispronounce a word)
(Although your narration was smoother than the cliched flutter of a butterflies delicate wings.)
You agreed to be my raconteur
of the novel I let you borrow
and you painted pictures like no other,
of vivid skies and snowy German cities, all for me.
I couldn't recognize the medium you used at first.
I've seen watercolor landscapes and acrylic abstracts,
but you preferred oil portraits.
You knitted quilts of time passing train rides and hiding in basements.
Your voice was a foreign feel of fabric.
I once laid in satin, and then wool.
You were velvet.
Your head was in my lap while I braided your sheepish curls
and your fingers sheepishly traced patterns on my knee caps
and I could have fallen asleep right there,
easily, perhaps,
had I not been falling for the rise and fall of your breaths
in between cleverly placed asterisks,
chapter titles,
and clumsy kisses.
So tell me, what happens next?

Odysseys aren't always what they seem...
Traveling from a hazy state to wide awake,
reality was bursting at the seams.

I dreamed you didn't want me
but I woke up in your arms
and you told me that you loved me
and it was just a false alarm.
But I still felt unsettled and low and I wanted you to know
that it made me think
about the nightmare of a reality
you once had to endure
when you asked me if I loved you and I said I wasn't sure.
And numerous times
you must've woken alone
in sweat that was only your own
with Roses and incense and Christmas lights yet
you had no reassurance or kisses to make you forget
and I think that's the one thing I'll always regret:
only being there in your dreams
and not wanting you when you weren't asleep.
I find it hard to believe
the life you perceived without me was one of ease.
I hope that when I crawl into your sheets and we bump knees
you feel relieved
because when I'm finally with you after a long day away,
I feel like I can finally breathe.

How did you manage not to drown all those nights you spent out at sea?
How did you navigate through the storms so perfectly?
Surely the stars were there guiding you to me,
or perhaps a lighthouse or a cloud or the white caps on the beach?
Maybe it was just hope, or a dream that helped you float on all along.
Regardless, I hope you don't come to the conclusion
that your decision to land on the Island of the Lotus is wrong,
but you've never been the kind to turn down a bowl
so I shouldn't be worried you'd want to return home
unless Odysseus comes to save your soul.

I won't live to sing another sad shipwrecked sleeping song.
And I won't plant the seed,
but just know
that sometimes, trees grow weeds
and flowers don't bloom beneath
the weight of snow.