there is so much of you here.
in me.
my skin
holds your touch.
your fingerprints are mine.
my eyes
are the color of every coffee we shared.
my lips
have learned to move like yours
my words
rhyme with your own.
do not wonder if you left any traces.
i carry them all.

my love is a four year-old
on chocolate milk and cake
running way too much, way too fast,
giving way too much, way too fast.
it has the scrapes and bruises to show for it.
i have tried to put it to bed early,
to sing it lullabies
and read to it stories,
hoping for peace.
but my love goes to preschool,
where they teach it to write poems
and sing nursery rhymes.
in art class,
it spends the hour making paper hearts,
giving each one away and not keeping one to itself.
in music class,
my love learns to sing along with other hearts.
on the report cards,
the teachers write that my love is impatient,
and it raises its hands too much,
wanting to give all the answers,
not afraid of being wrong.
the teachers tell me that math is not my love’s strong suit,
that it mixes up its numbers
and always shares more than what it has.
but they also tell me that my love
gives away all its snacks,
that it is an expert at holding hands,
at looking out for others and making friends.
the teachers tell me not to worry,
that a love like mine is gifted,
that when it is older it will change the world.
i tell them that i worry that my love is too much,
but they tell me that it is just enough.

enterraron tus huesos,
pero no lo que había dentro de ellos.
enterraron tus huesos,
pero no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrar tu luz, ni tu amor,
ni la historia que tu vida contó.
no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrar tu risa,
tu canción,
los recuerdos que guardan aquellos que te aman.
enterraron tus huesos,
pero no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrarte
porque tú no estás ahí,
en esas casas de tierra.
tú estás en los corazones de los que te amaron,
en los rostros de tus hijos,
en los ojos de tus nietos.
tú estás en las palabras que dijiste,
en los lugares que tocaron tus pies.
tu estás
en todas partes.

my hands are like my heart:
they know how to hold heaviness.
they know how to hold hope.
they make words come alive.
my hands, like my heart,
have learned to let go.
to hold on.
they have learned not to be so soft
but not too rough.
both of them, my heart and my hands,
they are like hummingbird wings.
they flutter,
they dive into love as if it were an ocean.
they do not know how to stop.

the other day,
when you asked if you could take the coffee maker with you to Boston,
i told you
that i never make coffee
when we are not together.
you laughed.
you jokingly said,
“is it because you miss me when i’m not here?”
we both laughed.
but honestly,
yes.

about a year ago,
you told me,
“you are starting to sound like me!”
i have yet to receive a better compliment.

the day before i left to new york
you gave me a hat you knitted yourself.
i wore it every day.
(until i lost it on the subway.
i may or may not have cried. i will never say.)

we both know you are not the best speller.
but i love the way you spell love:
s-h-a-r-e,
g-i-v-e,
c-a-r-e.

i give you myself
every time i write a poem
every word is a thread from my soul
every letter stands for a heartbeat
i will always have words for you.
i do not know how else to love.

i have never written you a poem.
this is a song long overdue.
i love you
i love you
i love you.
i love you because you love
because without you
i could not love.
you are my needle and thread
the milk and honey
that feeds these bones
the bread and wine of this soul.
you are the home of my words
you are the teacher of my hands
you tell them to hold other hearts gently
you tell them to hold on
you tell them to let go.
you sing to me every morning
you sing me alive
you sing to me
i love you
i love you
i love you.