I.

I heard fragile fingers dance

Upon piano keys in June.

What sweet seduction those

Chords had fallen under; a tune

Composed by a love that enfolds

And a humming heart, thumping.

How those lovely melodies wooed me

And when

You turned to me in November how

I wished I could speak that song

From my swelling throat.

In your gaze, I saw the views

That should quench your thirst; that you deserve.

If only I could paint you into Tuscany

Or rub pastels under my palms until

You fell in love

With me

In France.

For all my lips can speak and

For all the lyrics and ballads you stir in the bottom of my soul and

For all the things for which I breathe,

These characters of blank ink and blue gel

And hasty pencil are what I may offer you.

I try not to make myself a beggar,

But please, pluck these words from my cupped calloused hands

And suck the marrow from their bones.

II.

Allow me to try again.

The gaze of November

Sent Autumn winds whipping

Around my cheeks.

I swear it could have carried me away

On its crashing currents that day.

I remember the receding tides

And the mudflats and how

The space between us became a

Home beneath December stars.

Men’s shirts and love letters

And happy hands and Shakespearean sonnets

All look at me the way you do;

They make me look back.

You’re in the coffee grounds that escape the filter of my Sunday coffee.

Your arms are around me as I slip a sweater over my head.

I hear your voice in the cicada’s hum of August

And in the gaps of the ticking clock on my bookshelf.

I take my socks off and walk into the rain-soaked

Forest and she tells me to wait for you.

I always will.

My life is a song for you.