Dear Life,

I think I’m falling in love with you.

 

You—who I have orbited, galaxies in my eyes.

It is curious I have never paid you enough mind.

It’s starting to feel undeniable, the quiet

way memories of you appear iridescently and kind. 

 

How the universe gets eclipsed

when I blink, yet now I am wide open.

Swallowing seawater‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ recovering from the

sparks of this attraction unspoken. 

 

Soaking in a star’s bleeding light,

I am almost in a crawl, searching for your face:

glory of imagined gold. I reach,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I miss: I hit empty space.

 

Your smile. My undoing. You just know 

when the threads of your body ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ are pulling apart.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Drawing back the curtain, blame the curious for prying.

I can’t quite pinpoint the making of the start.

 

Perhaps the allure of your lilac skies,

and your natural beauty soaked in sound,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ pushing me to labor at getting you to notice me,

masterful at getting my spine soft and wound.

 

I’ve watched you let the wind dispose of your blossoms

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and shear you of the spring to a crisp, brown autumn,

just to ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ stretch out branches and turn a new leaf:

defiant to a seasonal thief hoping you’ll hit bottom.

 

I have not once looked away. You impossibly refuse

to wither under time’s routine.

I’ve always admired that about you:

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ how you remind me of the beauty and cost of being seen.

 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Breathless, I know you are only ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ daring me to look.

You have no qualms about holding me close to the scene and

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ softness of a busy street corner.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I believe it to be purposeful, or do I misunderstand? 

 

Because it was like making eye contact: seeing the big picture 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and the patterns you guide us through ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ —talk me through.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Lights reached out to embrace the crowd, conversation danced with live jazz. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Laughter faded into the setting sun. The cars exchanged on cue.

 

That’s when I felt like I saw a piece of you (did you want me to?).

You’ve always come alive in the presence of others.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Maybe it’s selfish to only dream of you and flatter you so

when my mind is ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wandering ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and looking for covers.

 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But the need to bridge this gap between ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ us,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I would plummet for a single look; it’s freefall. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Tension transactions, electricity you imbue, and

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ the quiet breaths I keep but don’t speak at all.

 

Isn’t it ironic though? That you are strewn throughout my self

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and learn so much of me without a clue, 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and though I could never stop 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ thinking about you, ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I could never know you.

 

There are depths to drown in 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ the grooves of your cosmic brain, 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ and there is boundless mystery you keep,

but it seems I’m the only one looking to gain.

 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You will never belong to me as gracefully 

and fully as I belong to you. You remain a rush,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ a mystery—but maybe 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ that’s the fun of a crush.