[prose poem]

If You are love, and You are in all the things I love–
then You are in my morning coffee cup. The one I drink when I've had little sleep, and I feel the adrenaline sizzle my skin. You are in those fresh mornings, when everyone is asleep. And I walk on tiptoes, loving the silence, the delicate serenity.
You are in every string quartet I've heard, every pull of the string, every soft harmony. You are in pens, yellowed old pages, in nights I spent on balconies looking over the edges–
You are in my walks, here and there– You are in these pages.
You are sometimes even in what I hated.
This body that I predicated, that I detested– You've dwelt here, You've cleansed me. You chose this, before the ages.
You are love, and my everything.