Nobody asked me to write about love,
so it lies in my arms
without fear of being captured
in so many words.
Instead we walk, climb trees,
and hike small mountains,
or take big naps.
Love brings me toast and juice in bed,
rubs peach lotion on my elbows,
scratches my back.
I wear sweatpants and Love doesn't laugh,
but cuddles up in a pocket
of my overalls.
We drink wine and pretend we are gods;
fill the bathtub up with rose petals
and grapes.
Love takes me on tours of the sky,
translates the dead sea scrolls
and recites afrikaan poetry.
I cry and Love brushes my hair.
When we fight, Love listens with a
forgiving hand, sifts out what I mean
from what I say, and lets me rage.
I never fight Love, we talk about
things we don't understand
and nod and say yeah, yeah.
Love throws parties and parades
for me, never questions my feelings,
reads between the lines,
and paints colorblind.
We have no expectations, no
presumptions, we keep each others
secrets, hold hands.
And Love never asks what
poetry is, or tells me
what to write.