It starts with a kiss.
No, sooner than this.
Maybe with the breath on your neck,
or the smile that takes you back;
back to the day you met:
the day it truly began—
the day you fell upon
--fell here.
But, always here
with your arms like vines
growing around my collarbones,
making a home within the nest of my heart—
becoming a tree;
sitting in a tree—the tree that connected us all along. So, maybe,
maybe it was the kiss:
the kiss that made me remember all of this.

Fall away suddenly
--gasp no more;
sigh no more—
there is no need.
Into roughened hands fall indefinitely,
and dwell there infinitely,
for no other love
will match one as such.

I am trying to grasp it:
the semi-enchanting awe of it—
of this concept,
of this idea of feeling so inspired and helpless; the smudgeness of it all—
this bourgeois ideal they chase for;
the same bits we chase for:
the hidden parts of you,
the hidden parts of me,
the secret bits of us both.

I wish no more than to sit here
--just sit here awhile,
watch the weather change,
drink two cups of espresso;
just sit here for a bit
--look out from above the roof,
onto other rooftops,
and treetops,
and one-room flats;
just sit here awhile with you,
and, simply, exist.

Maybe it was the way we laughed,
or the way your smile lit the room:
the way it lit my heart.

Maybe it was the way you talked,
or the way you whispered in my ear:
the way it flushed my cheeks.

Maybe it was the way you walked,
or the way I longed to sit and drink espresso:
the way it warmed my body.

Or maybe it was the way you lived:
the way you felt so close.
The way you smiled.
The way you brightened –
your very essence:
the way you made me fall for you.

He spoke,
her heart was guarded;
and he whispered,
and she smiled.
And he spoke,
and she cried
– but not tears of sorrow, tears of iridescence and eumoiria: for he spoke an aubade.
And he breathed.
And they lived.
And they fell.
And they loved.