to BJ



In this state of grace, I am no longer wanting––except

for words to make a love poem. I knew loneliness

so well, could draw its downturned eyes

with my own closed. Knew its stale smell,

the rhythm its footsteps make. Knew the names

it went by: three a.m., dying ember, cavern,

float, the ride home.
                                             Then there was you

with all the kindness of Sunday morning. The room

aglow, sun gilding the walls and blunting the knife’s

edge. How you plant a kiss on my head and tell me I’m loved

before I’ve even risen from bed. How my hand seeks

yours out of habit, or a need to come home. How

we don’t care what song plays on the radio, as long as

we could sing it badly. How, when we run out of stories,

the silence sleeps like a dog in the backseat,

its breathing slowed, sun warming its belly.