I don’t do well with love poems,
The printed words stare back at me, blank, blinking, as if that is all they were: just words.
My heart will roll over and say “no, not those words, they don’t live up to this, try, try, try again ”
And so I search.
I look for the words to make my heart beat as wildly as it does when you are nearby but nothing.
Nothing but scribbled attempts of love, crumpled and thrown away
to sink into the ground and
hopefully come up new.
New like my eyes when they first
saw you in that 2am haze of cough medicine and ice cream. New like the moment where suddenly sleep meant resting and waking up meant living, all because I knew you were there, wearing coffee on your breathe and my heart in your hands.
New like the toppling of my heart
as you brushed my arm and made fun of my shoes and I laughed because you were so new to knowing my name but I knew you would grow to
know my habits and how I forgot
to pack another pair as I had
driven from work to see you for the first time because I felt something new.
New like the fear I felt of losing someone I didn’t know the middle name of but knowing I had to be close to you or else, or else, Or else what? It didn’t really matter I just had to be near you. You and your socks, always matching and neat. You and your books and your bilingual thoughts. You and your Sighs, never understanding my cluttering mind, bag, and life, but smiling anyways. You.