I am gradually falling in love
with the concept of us.
Us together.
Two poets in love,
sipping our fancy tea.

Come hammock with me,
on a beach of
star-studded
lake softened
pebbles,
I'll paint pictures
from sun-baked colors,
while you paint
images with light
and glass lenses.

Sailing while freckles
pop up on our shoulders,
your strong hands on the helm.
We'd be wind pirates,
lake waves
would spray
our laughing faces.

You and I
both crave human contact,
like we crave crisp cold air.
Old movies would sprinkle our skin
with black and white,
and our arms would intertwine.

We could cook together,
try spicy things.
The music of popping butter
would feed our souls.
We'd kiss our cats,
and walk our dogs,
side by side,
if you were mine.

I know it's strange,
and as I write,
I'm helping you win another girl,
and we're miles apart...
But if this were one
of those eighties
romantic comedies,
we'd be the best friends
who saw each other with new eyes
before the credits rolled.
And it'd be some kind of wonderful.