Love is not fire.
It burns, in the beginning,
to be sure
but
fire is not sustainable
like love.
Love is crescendo and
plateau,
it is passion and quiet comfort.
I have loved you since you put
red in my cheeks
and tears in my eyes,
and I love you still
now that you are my rhythm,
my heartbeat.
The beauty of it all
is
as the summer cools into fall,
I still mean every word I’ve said
and you
have never been less beautiful
than the first sunrise
we burned beneath
and now
you are my patience
in the pitch black nights
we spend apart
easing peace between my breaths
with the knowledge that
you’ll be there,
on the horizon,
like clockwork
always.