I once read, and I’m paraphrasing,  
that "there are two kinds of lovers…those you write poems for,
and those you don’t"

I have built every word on your kind of compassion,
inked of this heart in my hands.
I know I’m careless with it sometimes,
take for granted it’s resilience.
Often dropping, then coming to cradle it's pulse may be
my only notion of grace,
that you believe in my clumsy grasp.

I know,
loving me is not easy.
Even now, I run in circles around and from your patience,
trying to find or keep or cleanse the 'me' in 'us',
but the distance to home is always wherever I stand
to your arms.

By nature, I’m homesick often.
Your love is a house I want to grow old in.
I promise to take my coat off.
Just leave the heat on high.