You rewrite me.

I learn the hieroglyph for longing,
the derivative of sigh.
Ours is a softly spoken love

and I'm a breathless scribe.

Silken assassin, pharaoh of swift,
serrated deaths— you look so cute
with milk in your whiskers.

When you said
what we have is magic
I didn't think it meant
you'd disappear.

The moon only wants everything,
her net always cast;
greed versus gravity.

The only things Earth cannot
hold fast to
are oceans and imagination.

Bedtime, little moonbeam.
See the stars? They're sleepy, too—
all blinky-eyed and snuggled in
like you need to do;

but the very, very moment
that you drift off into slumber,
the whole world sighs and smiles
at you, its dreaming little wonder,

and the bunnies in their hutches
and the sparrows in their nests,
they sleep, too, my little moon,
all fuzzy, warm and blessed

to have spent another perfect day
with a perfect girl like you.
Now tomorrow waits to meet you,
and I'll be waiting, too.

I let you walk me home last night
in a freezing March downpour;
I said you shouldn't love me
and for that, you loved me more.

When the word over finally made sense,
I shook you from me
like water,

like sleep.