return

where do you start after a year?
a year where i've tried to soak up every smile, belly laugh, and cuddle, given all of myself to her, and let the words pile up...and then wash away - almost unnoticed.

here's to trying again.

spring baby

I hope you're born on a warm and drizzly spring day so that your first breath will be the smell of rain and entirely full of hope.

the science of love

they taught us relativity, gravity, and energy
explained photosynthesis and chemical reactions
told us where we came from and how we continue to exist
but
they can't describe in textbooks that exact moment when the air cracks
and your lips meet my skin,
the thousand reactions that happen
they'll try
until they think they've figured it out
they'll fill blackboards with their findings
but all they will have is chalky, dusty fingers
and i'll still have you

sensual melody

i'll listen to the songs i don't like
just because you've sung them to me

they sound like your hands on my skin

safe

they say fire purifies gold
pressure creates diamonds
and a grain of sand if left long enough in the belly of an oyster becomes a pearl

so excuse me while i sit here and hope to go unnoticed.

candlelit

we've lived here since August, and there's seven and a half months left on the lease.  but this is the first candlelight dinner we've had since we've left our apartment, and I never dance in this kitchen.  you made meatloaf, which you later called "brickloaf" because it was so dry, but I told you it was delicious because that's what you always do for me.  and truly, it was, if only because of the way your skin looked in the candlelight and how you tried to give me what i used to give to you.

grey cloud

living without you is different.  it's like looking into the mirror and noticing a new freckle for the first time and wondering how long it's been there.  that weird feeling of seeing your face but not knowing it.

in the end, it wasn't a big, triumphant battle where i stood over your carcass and declared victory.  it was a gentle wind that came in the middle of the night and brought spring when we all least expected it.

(not to say there's still an occassional gust of winter.)