I wish that I could hold

All the love between us in my hands.

Every time you would look up from your book

And say “Listen to this…”

And read me a sentence or page or chapter

Because you loved it

Or didn’t understand it

Or were curious about my opinion,

And when I told you what I thought,

You would nod like I had just answered

A question that you had been born wondering.

Every hour we spent in the grass

Collecting dandelions and tying them into crowns.

Yours would inevitably fall apart

Because although your hands are good for many things,

Such as braiding hair

And hitting piano keys

And holding mine,

They are not very good for making dandelion crowns.

So I would put my own on top of your head

And you would smile like I had given you

A ring of pure golden sunlight.

Every night you came home late

And took ginger steps across the floorboards

That would inevitably creak despite your effort.

You would come into our room

Opening the door slowly

And feel your way to the closet

Where you would get undressed in the dark.

The next morning,

You would always ask if you woke me,

And I would always say no.

Every knowing glance,

Every shared umbrella,

Every “I will come with you,”

Even every tearful goodbye.

I would stuff these things in my pockets

And press them into books

And tape them to the ceiling so that they are the first thing I see when I wake up.

Then,

I would send some of them to you

In a nice little package

So that you could do the same.

But these things are not meant for touch

And so cannot be placed in droors

Or wrapped up and weighed and mailed to you.

Therefore,

I am giving you these words to tell you

That although we cannot hold such things

In our hands,

We must grasp them tightly

In our hearts.

My moon-drunk mind,

Slippery with insomnia,

Often forgets

That sleep is meant to be done

With the eyes closed.

The dreams comes faster

Than I can shut my eyelids.

Romance is a color I’ve never seen.

Perhaps it rests on the wings of angels or

Trails behind the footsteps of ghosts,

Caught between the push and pull of

Maybe someday but

Maybe never.

It is the god of atheists,

The drug of the sober.

We watch it strut across our movie screens,

Face painted over like

A sexed up actress,

Bathed in rose colored light.

It is a rainbow,

A shimmering mirage,

And I can’t help but stumble towards it

Gladly.

Hush,

We talk too much.

There are words written on our bones

In a language that we cannot speak

Yet somehow still understand.

Sometimes I see them

Glowing from under your skin,

Lighting your eyes like lanterns.

Hush,

We talk too much.

Let this silence grow between us like orchids.

Hold my eyes in yours -

This is not romance and yet

It is like a kiss,

A secret,

A clasping of hands.

It is a foggy day

Where the lake and sky

Blend into each other so perfectly

You are reminded that most barriers

Are man made.

Hush,

We talk too much,

And yet still don’t say enough,

So let us leave our tongues

Slack in our mouths.

We both know

There are things we don’t know,

But at least

Let us know

Each other.