Your heart is a bucket.  Your heart is nails.  Your heart is a post and beam.  Your heart is an empty bell.  Your heart is an ocean.

What is the wordless language of your chin on the top of my head in a sunlit kitchen, and your hand finding the heat where a threadbare shirt and old sweatpants meet.  What is the light at the window.  What is the first pancake, and me cursing it, and your noiseless chuckle that moves through my back to my front.  What is.

Butter slowly melting, in a well-loved skillet.

Have you noticed the way this clay curve fits into your hand, neatly warm, like the head of an infant.  Because that too.

My legs find power from somewhere even though I forgot to eat lunch and I climb a long hill in a purposefully heavy gear and it is also a love letter that I leave there, on the side of the road, in salt and molecules.

I can’t give you every beautiful thing.  I try anyway.  I’m not sure if it matters.  I do it again.  Anyway.

We have two chairs in the high field, and it is dusk, and we ask: how do you want the world to be, and watch the light go.  This too, I think, this too.

Your heart is a washed stone, half light, half dark.  Your heart is a tide pool, still and breathing.  Your heart is a hum.  Your heart is water so cold it hurts.  Your heart is a shirt so soft, afterwards.  Your heart is an argument I keep trying to have.  Your heart is a hand in the small of my back, saying here.  No, here.  A thousand times.  Here.