i used to tell myself the same thing.
that maybe something was wrong with me.
that maybe love was enough for me but i was not.
i have imagined kisses a thousand times
i have dreamt of arms around my own
and i have written enough love stories for the entire world
and poems to fill books
and i questioned so much-
my beauty, my worth, my skin, my bones
and i traveled and walked away
from fear and self-doubt
towards bravery and courage,
towards knowing what i want and what i deserve
and i know love is something i cannot earn,
something that belongs to me as much as air,
that love is enough for me
and i am enough for it
and i am enough with or without it.

my mother
does not love me in poems
in songs
(the way i know how)
but she loved me in phone calls
and breakfast
and new clothes in december
she loves me in doctor's appointments
and orange juice
and prayer
(the way she knows how)
and i will love you like this too
i will love you like my mother
and i will love you like me
i will love you in poetry
in words
in forehead kisses and long hugs
i will braid the words 'you are loved' in your hair
and i will kindle the fires inside you
i will wish upon the stars in your soul
i will love you in dreams
i will love you in ways i cannot tell
but i will love you

i want to memorize you
like a poem
sing to myself
the words of your bones to sleep
know your heart
by heart
and your voice
i want to keep it on the tip of my tongue
savor it
like a memory
i do not want to forget you

inspired by e.e. cummings’s 'into the strenuous briefness’

how many hellos
has the earth heard?
how many beautiful beginnings
has she seen?
how many roses has she bloomed,
and how many of them have been gifted?
how many hellos
have given way to friendship and
love,
how many of them have turned into light?
she keeps them all,
the roses and hellos,
turns them into poems
and turns them into time,
sunrises and sunsets,
beginnings and farewells,
you and me
in between it all.

i am not a stranger to hopelessness
it is easy to get tired of waiting
for what you want but won’t come
like love
like a hand to hold
the time when arms hold you instead of your arms holding others
like love
the feeling that everyone else (it seems)
but you
knows
it is easy to believe it will never come
but we keep waiting, don’t we?
we wake up every morning,
we give thanks,
we live,
we listen for the song of the birds
and sing back to them, “maybe today,”
and at night when the stars come out
we still dare to make wishes upon them
keeping our options open
hoping
hoping
hoping

the sparrows and their song
visited my windowsill this morning
their notes
a poem
a memory
a whisper,
“we are here, we sing.
you are here, so sing.”

our house will be big enough
to hold our two hearts
and the love that beats out of them
the walls will be filled with the words
i wrote to you
and all the times you told me ‘i love you’
in our kitchen
i'll save the recipes
to make you laugh
to make you smile
to make you forget your troubles
our bookshelves will be filled with poetry and flowers
our house will have a garden
where hope will grow wild
and every time i choose you
a flower will bloom