I've written the word "you" countless times to represent countless people on countless pages as I've aged I've become unable to place exactly which "you" belonged to who because Y O U was easier to write down than the names of the subjects I knew I shouldn't be proud of
they all blur together the faces the letters the shame I ignored the love that I forced the chapters in my life I was too ashamed to identify but one thing is clear through all the past-poetry-opaqueness:
I know I'll never struggle to place the word for the sound of rain the laugh that sounds like a hearth the effortless extemporization the sound of your beating heart
June.
even the four letters of your own name could never do justice to the beauty of your being that no word can capture no dialect, no vernacular you are more complex than language than pen on paper and that is why I love writing about you June, I know I'll never get it right but ******* do I want to try.
Dedicated to June, the love of my life, the only person who I've ever been proud to be loved by. I would learn every language if that meant I could properly describe you.