One day, I will write you a poem.
One day, I will write you a poem for every day we were apart,
a poem for every moment we spent not knowing each other’s faces,
not knowing the scent of each other’s hair,
not knowing
not hearing
not being
Like it or not, I will read these poems to you one after the other, in long succession, my head resting on my pillow, your head resting on my stomach,
my voice speaking into the top of your head and not into your eyes
because if I speak those words into your eyes my voice will be lost and something will surely catch on fire
and, Love, we don’t keep a fire extinguisher in the bedroom.
And there’s not enough water in the world.
I will write you a poem for every decision you had to make alone,
for every time you wanted to plan for our future, and I wasn’t there,
for every dream you wanted to talk about when I couldn’t hear you,
for every time you found yourself somewhere dark, reached out for my hand, and felt only a faint breeze,
for every time you worked late, and no one noticed,
for every time you were really hungry, and no one cared.
Honey, dinner is in the oven.
I will write you a poem.
I will write you a poem for the children we should have started having when we were younger,
for the career changes which might have been easier earlier,
for the college graduations we will be attending with more grey in our hair than the other parents,
for the great-grandfathers the kids will only hear stories of.
Baby, I will sing you that song you love,
we will dance in the kitchen all night long,
and I will write you a poem.
I will write you a poem for every time we didn't get to do the dishes together,
for every time you did the laundry and didn’t have to pull my bras out before starting the dryer,
for every time someone else made a mess and you were the only one there to clean it up,
for all of that time spent in the car without having someone to read all of the signs to,
for the stupid puns that you never got to tell me,
for the time you spent sleeping on basic-colored sheets wrapped in that college student comforter.
Sugar daddy, it’s called a duvet, and cotton sheets feel just like this.
You can read about them in my poem.
I will write you a poem for every flower you never got to give me,
for every card you never got to leave for me on the kitchen counter,
for every time there was no one to scratch your back until you feel asleep,
for every time you had to sit through the guys complaining about their girls without being able to tell them how you have never felt like more of a man,
how your woman writes a poem with her every curve,
how you never knew how good it could be.
I will write you a poem again… and again… and again… and again.
I will write you a poem for every prayer you ever said alone,
for every time you had to patiently make peace,
for every time you lost patience,
for every time you almost gave up.
I will thank Him for you in letters, but for you, I will write a poem.
And when the time comes for the air to leave your lips for the last time,
One way or another,
I will write you a poem.
I will place it into your out-stretched hands.
It will glow with the fire of a thousand moments when we breathed deep,
exhaled slowly,
and felt our hearts beat in unison.
I will swirl around you in all of the colors of the world,
In colors beyond colors,
melting through you, into you, within you,
until there is no space between us
until there is no space.
And no between.
I will hold your hand in the grocery store.
I will kiss you by the river until you need more Chapstick.
I will tell your children bedtime stories.
I will let you grab what’s left of my ass when we’re old.
You can read all about it.
I will write you a poem.
