How do you tell anyone
that the baby you have inside
is the son or daughter
of a man with a wife?

You don’t.
You take the bus or the train
to a grey building and you
ignore the names and yelling
and you sign the forms and
close your eyes.

You don’t tell anyone.
Except him.

And he has the ***** to tell you
it was a good thing you knew
what to do without him.

It was for just an instant, but I felt the way
two hungry eyes watched me sway.

The heat of the room hid my blush,
but your cheeks glowed pink and lush.

Possessed, and desiring to be a dream
I danced intending to extend the fantasy theme.

I was on stage performing my long practiced swing
like a flower with petals blooming in the spring.

Coming alive, I choreographed every step of my form,
and did not for a second feel your eyes, from me, torn.

In late January,
you walked into my life
and for the briefest second

I felt like a flower blooming.

Each petal folding backwards,
falling softly to expose me
warming from the inside out.

The first thing you said to me
was to name a Morpho in flight,
with the name I would choose for him.

That was when I felt my ice melting
and know yours did too,
in your easy smile and black curls.  

I was smitten from the moment that we met,
and I pray tonight that today will not be the last.

I’ve got no right and of that I’m very well aware, that I should have a say in how you wear your hair. That I shouldn’t think it looks the nicest after you’ve showered, when it’s darker and the lines of your combs teeth leave neat rows in your styled way.  

Or maybe that I love you when you’ve shaved, but also grizzly bear you reminds me it’s the weekend. When you're ruff, I know there are a few more precious hours in the Saturday and Sundays on the calendar.

I won’t ever tell you that your grey tee shirt is my favorite of your limited wardrobe, and that you in my favorite color—it’s blue if you  were wondering, though I'm sure you already know— makes my head swoon for a bit. When you wear a button up, and leave it un-tucked, I think about the white vee neck beneath and how I can see it peeking out from beneath your collar.  

I love the way your suit jacket makes you stand up straighter, and how your suit pants when you sit reveal those brown socks you always wear with your wingtips. I even love those blue jeans (I think they’re your only pair) that aren’t stylish, but soft and comfortable. And the brown belt with the cracking leather and brass buckle you always play with when you’re laying on the floor with me, watching nonsense tv at the end of a day. I love your sweatpants, and the way that when you lie on your side, your boxer band shows like a tease. I like the way you never fix it, but it fixates me.

I noticed today how tall you look when you stand at the cash register in the grocery store. I swear I wasn’t trying to, it's just that I looked up and there you were in your suit and tie and I was caught.

I’m so sorry that when you take your glasses off I picture you sleeping on the pillow beside me.

And I’m so sorry that sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wrap my arms around myself and put a pillow against my back. I put my hand across my bare skin, on my hip, and I pretend you’re there. I pretend we’re just sleeping, nothing else. There’s time for that too, but I can’t quite articulate that yet.

Anyway, you’re how I sleep on sleepless nights, or at least the dream of you. That’s why I noticed how tall you are, when you were standing in line. Because I was imagining how you would fit perfectly behind me when I was asleep against my pillow tonight.

The trick? My friend, I shall tell you the trick.

Forget the dream. Forget the dream, and mention it to no one. Lock it in the drawer with all the others, the ones you never tell, even when you’re drunk. Because those dreams are yours, and for a girl who wears her feelings on her face, you’ve got to have something to keep hidden away. So let it be the dreams. The dreams you wish were reality, with all your heart. The ones that make you sad to be awake, that you think about all day long. That you create stories from, or poems in the middle of the night. The dreams that drive you crazy with the unknown, the imagined.

Keep them back, because to unlock that drawer and spill the secrets held within is to open a pandora’s box you’ll never be able to close again.

People write letters full
of heartache
or lace
or moonlight.  

Sometimes all three.

I can’t really tell you what they all say
but as the envelope splits
I feel each voice spilling out into
my hands, into the air.