Hesitant hands and
a lover who doesn't want
to love.
Momentary bliss with
someone who is terrified of
future.
Another saturday together,
back scratching,
arms holding,
reciprocated wanting,
and a kiss on the cheek in the morning.
I know he'll miss me
but
only in retrospect.
I say,
this feeling,
is the closest thing to god I know.
I think,
I will never let myself
admit it.
He thinks but says
nothing of
importance.
I, with a need for conversation,
am always the first
to initiate it.
Speaking of the weekends and
our time together and when
it will be the next already.
Professing my care and
how much I do and
how I don't know exactly why.
I tighten the knot around
my tongue and swallow
the proclamations as they come.
I decide to save them for
another who I know
I'll have to find eventually,
when the comfort has
settled and the strive
has grown tired,
when there is
not much left of
what barely ever was.
This is,
at most,
one of those routines that just sort of happened.
This is
hardly something
you could call romance.
I wonder,
how do you invest yourself
in a broken bank?
How do you share passion with
a person who doesn't have any?
How do you stop giving away too much
before you empty out again?
Why talk about tomorrow when
it is only today
and why is that still not enough
to be satisfied?

I'd love to love you
and hold
your hand.
We could
pick sunflowers and
I'd put them
in your hair
while you made faces
at the sun.
We'd crunch
through orange leaves
and rub red
noses together
to keep
warm.
I'd make you
hot chocolate
and wrap you up
in my heaviest
quilt under the stars,
and in the
morning
we'd find ourselves
wound up
tightly
and so very content.
But only if you'd
let me love you.

Your name is the loveliest word
I've ever said. In my life
I've never known someone like you.
Your aura is a quilt
that I could spend all day in
if you'd let me.
I think the chances of me meeting
another you are absurd
and I find the whole idea
to be terrifying.
I could make so much room
for you in my heart.