Because there's no silence in my world
Or peace,
It does not stop here.
The noise, drops of rain and
Screeching tires,
So visibly loud
I can't sleep in my own bed,
Do not
Stop
Growing
Living
Existing,
Here.

"Do I love her?"
He laughed
As if you'd just asked the bird soaring above your head
If it was flying.

"The sun rises
At the sound of her voice.
The whisper of good morning hiding
Beneath the covers."

"And sets,"
He said,
"When her eyelids close, and I can no longer see
Her smirk shining through the starlight."

"I do not love her."
He sighed
He bellowed.
"I need her."

It is nonsense to think
That reason
Has little to do with loving a person.
But it is far more nonsensical
To abandon love
Because logic and reason
Because any logic
For any reason
Told you so.

If she could grow up to be anything in the world,
She'd be the last thought on his mind before he falls asleep at night.
Or maybe the last person he danced with to the sounds of the winter evening.
Hers would be the last lips his taste,
The last goodnight he whispers as she drifts to sleep on his chest,
The last hand he holds onto
She'd be his last first date, his last first kiss, his last first dance
The last, greatest love of his life.
If she could grow up to be anything in the world,
She'd be his last choice.

He's a California hurricane.
The sunset over Venice Beach.
He's the lights of Los Angeles,
The summer sun
And the gentle rains that blow across to Arizona.
He doesn't need coffee he just wakes to the breeze coming his way.
He's an earthquake and a soda, a busy freeway after morning yoga.
He's 40 million people laughing and crying and building and dreaming all at once.
And he's all mine.

She's a mess.
The smallest fall of snow is a blizzard in her mind
And the cold is incurable.
So she sleeps when she can,
And wakes when she must.
Until, of course,
The day she can replace his old t-shirt
That she wears to fall asleep
With his strong and kind arms.
And she can replace the cold night air on her lips
With his.
So her dreams are stuck in euphoria between goodnight and goodmorning kisses.
That's how she'll survive the snowfall.

The past will always be written on our faces
In moments.
Left for us- and us alone-
To silently acknowledge
With fondness and with longing
Before we let them pass over us
Into the futures we've each chosen
For ourselves.