To love you—is to resign to a fate of gentleness,
you macerate all things in life to the point of it being palatable.
I stare into the tiger’s teeth and remark how inviting it seems.
Is that a prerequisite to loving you—to try and make a home out of everything?
I gazed on you once, and now my eyes have a penchant for boring holes
in everything, in search of your light.
This morning, the snow atop the branches of the bare trees
made me think of you—how sweet it must be to be beautiful
while that naked and vulnerable. I wonder how you’d look upon it,
would you liken it to a dormant tree forming white arteries
to find new blood in the winter chill? Or would the adjacent
coniferous trees, still ever-green under the blanket of snow,
grab your attention, as you find a metaphor in it
of how all things will thaw, in due time?
I confess—the last time you touched me, you left me burning, and now,
I want to find all the warm things, and cup them in my palms.
I wonder, is this how you feel when you cradle me in your arms?
I wonder, how did you get stuck with all this tenderness?
(I can taste it on my lips when I speak your name)
But the truth is, the tenderness looks good on you.
Even in repetition of the looped days, you work yourself into a minute of my day,
and the monotony breaks/I’m of the wind now/I’m no longer unfamiliar with myself.
