When the inkwell runs dry, from
the words I’ve written for you,
when the lines and the curves that
form the letters all begin to disappear,
look close my love, at
the indentations on the page,
for my pen still writes, even
though the inkwell ran dry.
Above the sleepy city, the inky heavens were cloudless and infinite.
As a wintery breeze kissed their cheeks beneath the vast, star-freckled sky.
His words and movements were intoxicated
by too much excitement and gin
bouncing from foot to foot, arms swinging wildly,
dancing in the silvery moonlight.
He faltered just slightly as he looked at her over his shoulder
and grinned, spilling stars into the night.
scattering constellations across dark canvas.
Her brief time with him had taught her the
angles of his nose and freckled patterns peppering his cheeks,
his sleepy face at 4 a.m. and how his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
She watched as he effortlessly reassembled her broken pieces,
and understood, sowing hope into her life.
promising their forevers in sparkling bright paints.
Their twinkling city and whispered breeze orchestrated
a simple melody matching his sloppy waltz,
composing a love song, of sentimental verse
but never so mundane as romance and desire.
They knew their symphony was unique
and celebrated, breathing stardust into the air.
Above the sleepy city, their childlike laughter was timeless and infinite
As a wintery song changed their lives beneath the vast, star-speckled sky.
Today’s the day for you, my love
When I answer all your wishes
I’ll say the words you long to hear
“It’s my turn to do the dishes”
I’ll shower you with long-stemmed roses
Prepare your favorite drinks
Then smother you with steamy kisses
After I scrub the sinks
I’ll rub your back until you sigh
Massage your heels and toes
I’ll run my fingers through your hair
And then I’ll wash the clothes
By the time it’s late and you’re in bed
You’ll be floating in a fog
Warm as toast on a freezing night
While I’m walking the dog
Today’s a day for you, my love
Say the words I long to hear
“Oh, my darling, I love you too
You’re good for another year”
Coming together late in life,
we linger over coffee, savor time and talk,
two separate brews reminding us of our separate lives,
habits formed now spilling over into morning coffee shared.
His brew requires a daily ritual, sacred and intense:
Set the grinder growling, filled with satiny, fresh-roasted beans.
Add near-boiling water. Watch it drizzle gently down
the narrow neck of the glass carafe, as if by alchemy
transforming water into luscious amber satisfaction.
For me, he makes a cold press Witches’ Brew, steeped overnight,
no early morning fuss or muss, just heat and serve.
A feeble substitute for proper coffee, in his view,
but he indulges me because he knows it smooths my cranky edges,
whets my appetite for eggs and toast and tender talk.
Still, he coaxes me to join him in his quest
for pure, delectable perfection. “Just take a taste of mine,”
he urges, offering his favorite trophy mug, reminder
of a tennis tournament he won in 1982.
I bury my nose in the steaming mug, aromas rich with promise.
I take a sip and close my eyes to concentrate and appreciate.
He watches, waits, anticipates . . . and finally pops the question:
“How’s the coffee?” he wants to know. “Is it the best ever?”
I hesitate.
Shall I play with him or tell him what he wants to hear?
a sliver of attention
from your spotlight eyes
beaming on to me,
the intensity of your gaze flushes my cheeks until I just can’t look anymore—
insecurities left over from tiny
atrocities neglected
and collected and hardened over time.
I wait for you to take it all back, to say no thanks but have a good day,
and you haven’t yet, and this breath is tight in my chest— I’m considering letting it go—
an exploratory exhaling slow, coaxed,
careful as you love me openly,
my lungs relieved as you hold your arms out to me.
I settle into your safety, the oasis of acceptance
in the pillow of your pectoral muscle,
my anxious hand stilled under your clavicle,
your free hand in my long hair, champagne strands like desperate tentacles
braided together by fear.
I am untangled by you.
You watch me surface and soften
with each deep breath.
each word of yours
a grain of sand
falling on the scale pan opposite my heart
until i am me again
each word of mine
obsolete
to all except you
because you have a heart that’s compatible
each word of the world
telling us we shouldn’t have made it
reduced to nothing
because we proved them wrong
each word of our love song
ringing true
lulling us to sleep
as our limbs intertwine
together these words make the story of us
etched not on paper
but on the sky
read not by eyes
but by the moon every night