It was when the sunlight blinded me after I knew that snow had fallen the night before that I realized the wonders of the universe and how it worked were equivalent to our love. The crisp autumn snow lay frigid outside as the Stillwater sun beat down on your bare chest. My hand found yours as I watched you curve your perfect lips to sip the cider of the Plains. Love beamed, sitting upright on your back while you slept (so sweet) on your stomach. It became the wind in your hymns of surprise laughter, the verb behind your smile. It got caught like my hair in your fingers, my language in your tongue.
I remember when you looked back at me,
that fateful day,
when your half smile and focused chin
became the net that caught my butterfly heart.
I remember being a mountain
to your sky,
alone in the geography
of our borrowed bed.
My ballooned head
followed you around
as you pulled my heart made of string.
When I ate those marigolds that weren't mine
and danced like a Russian.
Or spoke in my mother tongue,
because you knew all about
It's numbing when I see my words wash over your wounds. Your feelings made of flesh hiss at the sweet balm of diction. You push my hair away when I'm looking down into the empty palms of our future. You sit behind me, so we're looking in the same direction but not at the same things. You push my hair away, you kiss my wingspan- my heart takes flight. It's strange watching myself turn into a listener, and you a writer. It's strange watching us (with such speed, since we have practice now, you see) create safe spaces in rooms we enter for which to put our love-we walk in, fingers intertwined, eyes large, biting the inside of lips- we don't even know we're doing it anymore, but it's there. The dipping of toes into water, the preparing of a corner in which to put our love in full and almost offensive view of others, so neither of us forgets for a single second that our threads were tied and knotted several times over long before we even knew the other existed.