“For You.”

You give me sparks. You give me Spring. You kiss the small of my back, and I blossom rose gardens. My ribcage becomes a trellis. We can’t breathe for all the honey’d lilac. Nothing has been this soft, this pure, this good before. Don’t mind my hands. Don’t mind the tears.

There were fires,
lots of them.
I don’t talk about it
much these days.
Told myself then if
I got far enough away
the ash would look
like snow.

I don’t pretend anything anymore. The blankets tangle and catch our legs. I write poems about my    heart being an anchor. I worry about the weight of my words. I’m not used to how they can sound        at two in the morning when you’re asleep and I’m not. I always think about waking you, to say
love just once more, knowing it will never be enough; but instead I watch you breathe, make up
stories about your dreams:

In a pond I float
on my back.
The white of my dress
surfaces around me
like the sail
of a sunk ship.
You find me there
among the lotuses,
opening,
breathing,
beginning.

You know about the broken. The dark. How my wax wings
melted and cracked off an imprint of my spine. You know
the spaces of my straight teeth, and how begging once spilled
between them, and how I found nothing. No respite. How I
bandaged my skin and set the bones. How I wanted. How I
waited. How I wilted; a poor, sick violet in the shade.

There are days,
whole days,
I cannot get over
the miracle
of your name —
I say it again
and
again and
again.
You have still
not stopped
blooming
inside of me.
You are born
again and
again
and again.

The third man I loved. The first to bring me flowers. To fill my life with colour and sweetness. To ask for nothing and instead give me vases to fill with love; whole afternoons to spend trimming stems, gathering the green between my hands, appreciating every second of beauty. You kiss me gently. I see purple carnations, soft pink tulips. I don’t know how you do it. You send me searching for the sun.

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