Your rapture is infectious,
genuine,
and unconditional.
You are endearing in a way that is physically painful to me.
I adore you like a wildfire.
Your eyes have been shaped like a laugh since noon.
Everything is viscid with the scent
of your youth;
sycamore,
marjoram,
tattered baseball gloves,
and a whisper of burning wood.
I’m a little in love with all of it.
Summer digs its way into my veins.
You dissolve into a splendid and fearless laugh.
Its dripping with a sort of ferocious, tranquil charm.
One of my hands is a promise,
the other is a secret,
and darling,
they are identical;
I have been missing you
as long as I have known you.

I’m doing it again.
I’m getting mawkish,
from loving something without knowing why,
loving something so mammoth,
loving it so grandly,
that I don't even know where to put my heart down.
Ah, there it is.
You’re getting so much closer
to what your eyes remind me of.
That indefinite cavity,
that sweeping emotion of your piano teeth,
that bewitching graze of your pomegranate hands.
I almost can't bear to look at you.
The world is humming around your existence.
Shivering, trembling,
earthshaker, sunbringer.
You are frighteningly alive.
Nothing is the truth until you get your hands on it.
There is a careful and loving precision
to the way I glimpse at you.
Darling,
we’ve developed this habit
of closing wounds
but never cleaning them.

I always find you in the saltwater room
where everything burns
and our eyes are closed.
May is monsoon season, here.
It's making me restless-
but maybe its just you.
I cant help but wonder,
was this an ordinary sinking?
You keep looking at me
from the other side.
Eyes unblinking,
and very,
very blue.
The rain keeps drumming on.
It knows I'm home, I suppose.
Perhaps it was no ordinary sinking.
Perhaps something more than you and I
was meant to make it back to shore.
Thats not the point, though.
The point is that I cant remember what kind of boat we were on.
The point is that there's no way to tell.
The point is that saltwater cleans wounds.

I still sigh at the smell of citrus.
How could I not?
It was always you and that crate of oranges,
ambling towards the market
and me.
The flowers turn to you
instead of the sun when they pass.
I figure they don't know the difference.
I keep swearing to gods I stopped believing in.
Cyrus,
I've got oleander in my eyes
and my teeth
and my everything.
We didn't mean to water it so well,
But how could we not?
I keep seeing this phantasm
where I'm peeling oranges in the kitchen.
It smells like weathering wood and you.
The window is open
while you smile at me through it,
one hand placed gently on the windowsill.
My soul be ******.
You look like magic.
I watch you hand me an orange,
gently,
tenderly.
I don't remember taking that step forward.
I suppose it's always like that with you.
Cyrus,
they say that oranges are for good fortune.
How could they not?

You smile like dandelion wine.
I sat easy, despite my shaking hands.
Hands and knees and hearts
strike roots in the earth.
Week old bruises lace my spine,
and you knew the names of all the flowers.
So yes, I’d give all my tomorrows
for a single yesterday.
Yes, I’d still burn the whole world.
I will still buy the matches.

You are the only god
I’ve ever believed in.

I eat honey
Straight from the jar.
I try not to make you laugh,
In this moment.
If you did,
I'd hear it pealing through the trees for the rest of my life.
I look down the street
I've been standing on.
I see you and the setting sun.
I am not sure there's a difference.
"Last time we were young and stupid.
And we only had one bike."
Well, I say.
This time we have two.