You picked me tulips and moonflowers.
You ran your hands through my hair.
You became in the habit of kissing me
sweetly from time to time,
opening up.

You held my hips and waist and back
with warm, strong hands.

You laughed in the mornings with me,
and we were both alive.

You visited me at work like a fleet fox.

You kept me safe and squeezed my ankles.

You sang old songs in the shower, ones that shouldn't have made me sad.
They do now.

You showed me the solitude of clandestine caves and hills and woods.

You revealed to me all the things I wanted to learn,
to help me distill and breathe my dreams,
to make magic.

You shared your whole home
and left me to your bed
and your secrecy.

You wanted road trips and Canada and bees.
I wanted those too.
You touched my knees in restaurants,
park benches,
early nights.

You gazed at the fish with me.
You made love like a prayer.
You let your hands fulfill your duties.
You lit up the moon on the sea.

You tasted like truth.
I know better now.