for when you ask


it’s so easy,
so very, very easy to love you

alright, then
let me tell you some little stories–
and they’re not true, nor false;

but they are real.

some days you sound like a metal guitar,
some days, like a jazz piano,
some days, like the wind in the trees
or the rain on dry dirt

we walk on the sidewalk in the days of autumn
and i am the sidewalk
and you are the leaves
(take away the amber, umber, ochre, crimson, gold
and it’s just a sidewalk, you see)

sometimes you feel like snow on a barn’s roof
sometimes, like the light of the sun in a summer field

and because
is what makes the sound of

i hold you
and you fit
we sprawl down on the bed
and you fit
you gather my flame into yours
and i fit
we dance in the kitchen
and you fit

because there was a star that died
so long ago,
giving up the atoms of its heart
that made you
and me,
and sidewalks,
and leaves,
and guitars, and pianos,
and trees and rain and dirt and barns and fields

because you are not the pledge,
nor the turn;
you are the prestige

(i watch so closely but i’ll never figure it out;
and since magic is built
into the fabric of the universe anyway,
why would i want to?)

because your defiance flashes
always with reason
(and i like the way you swear)

because you chose to learn from the earth
and all the wild and growing things

because you didn’t grow up;
all you did was get a bit older

because you look up at the stars
the same way i look up at the stars

because you think out loud

oh, yes,
and because the curve of your back
is the spine of an old book
and your mind
is the scent of the pages
and your soul is the protagonist
and your heart is the words

and i can’t get paid to keep writing this,

(not yet)

so i’ll have to end it here,
even though
(just so you know)

i could go on


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