(really) the way you hold your pen
as i imagine an ocean holding its waves
(it's difficult to keep such a
force placid when something
untamed, something yours,
beautiful, must be born),
or how the buildings and business-people
smolder into complex forms and shapes and
angels and demons
models
begin to dance feverishly, gloriously,
in your head beneath your unruly hair,
nor is it the
sex so suddenly saturating
veins and words,
how peaceful and turbulent it felt,
to be one,
or that your touch awakens my skin
(your lips a new drug
and i am your junkie)—
but maybe
(perhaps),
it's the way your eyes stripped off my eyelids
and reached inside for my heart,
how we lay breathless and
my right ear
it felt wind and air converge with
meaning from your mouth
.—and they were earnest gardeners—
that, when the dandelions of
youthful hurt and distrust were so delicately
plucked,
i felt a world collapse under my stomach,
i felt a new city begin,
i saw stars and choirs and,
yes, skyscrapers,
and merry go-rounds and
ice cream trucks played joplin's "entertainer"
and a freespirited child tapped its foot—
—but mostly,
mostly really,
i felt,
and i felt real,
and i couldn't help that,
when you pulled my heart through my eyes,
it got stuck in my throat and—
(and i can't get you out of my head
and i smell you on my clothes
and i will miss you in the morning when you are not asleep beside me)—
and out tumbled, "i love you, too."