Ages ago I asked a dreamer
(A feeler and a magician, as well) 
What love looked like on the inside
When those who are in it cannot tell

If it's tough enough, strong enough, red enough
(And of course, to be honest, is it true)
So that, if possible, we can avoid any pain
And the mistakes and the whatifs, too.

He told me:
It appears like a rainforest drizzle,
Somewhat expected, though still a blessing,
And its term is always indiscernible
Though in its haze, we still dance and sing.

And I said:
And what of the broken hearts,
Those who thought what they held was good:
They felt true things, they saw true light,
But they lost it all in the woods. 

He said: 
What they had was worthy and fine,
Though it seemed to bring nothing but pain, 
For a shower can bring both cleansing and fire:
And we call it acid rain.

So I say:
Why question the love you are given?
Trying to name it, excuse it, or worse-
Instead, let it pass over you like a rainstorm,
Whether it floods, or if it's your first.

Breathe in the scent and inebriation,
Drown yourself in petrichor.
For when love hits you, it hits you hard,
And when it rains, it pours.

why am I still breathing?
She said as she scoured the city with a broken heart;
the leaves, they keep on falling,
the leaves, they keep on fading--
and the trees, they keep on singing.

but why am I still aching?
She said as she smothered herself in his wounds and his wounds;
but never in His,
but never bandaging her own wounded spirit--
and the moon, it keeps on spinning.

but why am I still sighing?
She said as she sprints down roads she'd never traveled;
just to drown out the awakening demons,
just to sing their sad song once more in solitude--
and the car, it keeps on crashing.

but why am I still running?
She said as she awakens to bleeding heels and blistered hopes;
December, it keeps on wishing,
December, it keeps on manifesting dreams--
and the girl, she keeps on walking home with only the sound of her footsteps to accompany her.

he never asked me what I was looking for,
nor did he ever brush the hair from my eyes,
but he breathed new life into my lungs,
& I must agree that it was enough--

the sheets are cold,
but the Book is worn & fading.
the wine glass is stained,
but the pages are talking again.
it was enough, enough--

as I outline the traces of the scar you gave me,
I come to the point of either breaking it in two,
or allowing it to stay,
& eventually fade,
until all it can do is glimmer,
whisper:
*"you were enough."

for months, I’ve wondered
about the whatifs and the howlongmustIwaits—
so tired, so frustrated, so impatient was I—
but on this evening, as the snow begins to fall,
I hear you cry and I realize

that it is not always about the questions we ask amongst our discontent,
but rather,
the answers we gather as we comfort one another:

we wrap warm woolen blankets around each other’s shoulders and
               we listen for the tea kettle whisper and
                        we hold hands
                     [just holding hands]
                     and wait for the right time for the other to speak.

because sometimes, getting what we thought we’d wanted for years
[so many tears, so many tears]
pales in comparison to helping someone else we cherish get through just one day.

so rather than asking the
whenwillyourealize or the
howcouldyounotnotice and the
whenwillyouwakeupandsee—
let us instead ask the
whatdoyouneeds, the
howcanIhelps, and offer the
{Iloveyou,nowwhat?}s

when you cry on the line—
the one we listen to, and the one we’ve both walked upon
(but never crossed)—
know that, yes, I’ve loved you for some time,
but I’m making the decision to be what it is you need
(whistle, whistle, whistle)
rather than begging silently for what I would like.

so sit down on that old porch swing, and stay awhile,
and wait for me to grab the hot water off the stove.