still

i am still in love with the idea of you; with happy endings,
or no endings, and the curve of your belly pressed to me
when the days are not as soft as your skin. i'm still in love
with the idea of you standing in a bow tie with crinkling eyes,
watching me twirl in a white dress, fingers ringed, cake had
and eaten too. i'm still in love with the way you brush your hands
over your guitar, trying to learn a new song, or singing me
the oldest song you know. (the oldest song i know 
has no words; just the rhythm of my blood
as we melt together, becoming between covers
something other than ourselves- something
better.)
i am still in love with the idea of your sleeping face
and lullabies, the ones i wish i could hum to you
in the early hours, your little eyebrows and the crease
between them when you're sluggish in the morning-
i am still in love with the memory of you running
over sand and grass and sea; your laughter like a burst
of orange paint upon a white wall, your limbs everywhere
like you're some kind of god (i keep putting you on a pedestal)-
i am still in love with the memory of you over me and under me
and in me, all those nights under red canvas and stars,
your feet on the dashboard, the way you smoke-
the way you swear, the way you cry,
each and every way you are, everything you are,
i love everything you are. i love your smile 
and your faces and your arms and your callused hands
and your stomach and your nipples and your feet
and your brain and your eyelashes and your soul
and you, you, you- then,
still. always.


(it is your birthday and i wish you were with me.
it is your birthday and i miss being home.
it is your birthday

and if you wanted


i would give you everything.)