why is it that when I have found happiness,
my urge to write begins to cease?
and as I stare at the crease between your eyebrows I wonder if perhaps the reason thunder trails so far behind lightning isn’t a matter of science
but instead, hesitation, as if this sort of happiness is noncompliant in which its outcome is simply consequential, but I doubt one second of my day is spent doing anything less than adoring that crease, i need not express the happiness you bring me through the lines of a poem but instead through the storm of emotions that constantly rise and fall, yet all in all, not once have I hesitated.  
the happiness you bring me never falters.
I have yet to witness that thunder.

a sort of trepidation
that accompanied each butterfly gesture
served as the puncture weapon of a daily wound.
today, the empty hole left within me-
filled with inevitable aftermath.

I'll wallow through the ocean of your absence.

We will forget the times I breathed your name into the sky
and made it rain.

The thought of you will become a ***** verse in the anthology of
apologies I figured in my sleep.

I will forget the touch of your skin
in the way you forgot how to love.

you have opened me up,
sewn me from the inside out;
stitching back together every
broken piece within me, every
cutting shard of distrust  

each tiny gesture
has been no sleight of hand,
but an intentional grasp on a fragile pencil with which
you have written me down,
rejuvenated me;
fastened the seatbelt across my beating heart, and
you,
I am determined to love.