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
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
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.
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.