they say
the smallest acts of love
make the greatest difference.
the first thought is typically
a clasp to the hand,
a kiss on the cheek,
a small surprise of flowers or chocolates.
me:
a blanket.
my parents and siblings have all taken cat naps
and forgotten covers
when they've fallen asleep on the couch, the bed,
wherever they choose to lay down and drift.
and once i've covered them with an old blanket
sitting in the closet, waiting to be used,
i remember the little things.
romantic notions/acts/gifts
still hold romantic weight.
the smallest things
are what make the difference.
the safety of someone caring for you
in the most unexpected and minuscule moments.
falling asleep on the couch,
and without warning,
a cover resting over you,
a small semblance of home/safety/care.
that's how i picture love.

if your voice was a song,
you wouldn't make it to the Top 40.
if your soul was the sea,
it wouldn't be more than a foot deep.
if your heart was a pen,
the ink would be dried out
before you could jot down a word.
if your being was glass,*
it would be broken and swept away by now.
but
i can hear the melody in the cracks;
i can feel the waves in the shallow tide;
i can read the sentences you're trying to write;
i can pick up the shards if you're willing.

do you ever wonder
if you find pleasure in your sadness?
i ask myself many times if i do.
in the moment it isn't pleasurable,
but it's kept me company for so long.
i wonder if i should call it a friend.
a long distance lover
coming home for the weekend,
who will arrive soon
with tickets of tears
and promises of gloom.
maybe that makes me a special *******,
but at least i'm not lonely.