If you asked me before,
I'd swear that love was
not for me
that a feeling
so soft did
not exist within
me
and that holding a gaze
was only for show

I've read a lot of books now,
and I've had a lot of
lovers-
and I've asked fortune
tellers for my
feelings I don't know,
sleeping so stilly within me

-would not wake
to the slightest or the sharpest
touch of a hand, and I've had
both-

I've had
10,000 miles and
too much coffee.
Pursuing and
withdrawing.

And after all this time
in the self's purgatory
I find you
and you dig into
my skin and pull
the tenderness out
of me like picking flowers
from the quietest
of meadows

I've seen a lot of things
and dreamed a lot of dreams
and finally after seeking,
you pluck and uncover me.