His voice rolls steady across my
skin, mimicking
the hair that curls so shyly
at the base of his neck.
It flips my stomach
and screams sight into my eyes,
and it takes everything in me
not to cry like I've never seen in color
before.
He tells me he doesn't dance, except
I can see it in the way he moves, when he
laughs or smiles or says my name; I know he
does
so I promise myself I'll
dance with him someday.
And with his hands pressed to my heart,
he gently erases the
grey skies from my old
paintings, rewriting
the ends of all my poems
and brushes his signature
on every one I’ve yet to write.
He
softly shines on my tired garden,
turning it greener than his
eyes as he
breathes my next breath
into my lungs. And I slowly realize
for all the years I knew him and did not love him,
I was seeds, in soil, shadowed, and
to love him is to see the sun.