I love the way you

make my hair stand on end.

I love the way you

make my eyelashes bend

as I close them for a second

like flower petals in the wind.

And the way my eyes dilate

when you softly

press your fingers

against the pin cushion

that is my heart.

The way you mold it

Like it’s a work of art

You cherish it while you carry it.

Gently hold it in your palms.

The way you patch

the wounds

and give them warmth.

Cause it has experienced

liquor-filled evenings

with cruel emotional dilapidation,

Guest starring

Spiraling Grief

and Agitation.

And featuring an

unfamiliar guest,

Invisibility.

And you just keep guessing,

but, oh why that girl is smiling?

And why is she using her hair

and her fingers

and her mouth

and her words

as outlets for expression?

And the girl will put her tips to her forehead to

block all the voices

until it becomes silent.

Like the hallow.

Like the wind.

Like marshes.

And yet, that silence

is something peaceful.

Beautifully displayed

on countertops

and refrigerator doors

In the form of

important dates

and numbers

and photos

of the person

you used to be

way back when.

But you remember it,

and you remember why

and it makes you smile.

Like taking a breath.

Like the way the city

feels when it snows.

This silence, it grows.

It doesn’t feel painful.

It’s white noise.

It’s something important.

Because she doesn’t

want to expose her sorrows.

Because she doesn’t

want to disclose

the things that haunt.

You take away the fears

You excavate

the deepest caves

And seek to vanquish

the darkness

The anguish

Shadows that

have disguised

themselves as toys

Aligned neatly next to

poisons on the cabinet shelves.

You make my heart silent.

You shudder me at my core.

The door has swung

wide open

as you use

your fingers to prod

at the doughy areas of my heart.

To make a loaf of bread.

A savory treat.

“To fill your heart,” you say.

To make sorbet.

Something sweet.

“To chill your soul,” you say.

You take the fruits of my grief

and blend them with ice.

You mix them.

You fix them.

With syrup, you dress them

In lace.

You caress them with grace.

And you serve my heart,

you serve my heart as a dish of love.

As a loaf of bread

baked to perfection.

Warm.

Soft.

Alive.

You serve my heart

alongside your own

and recommend

that I listen to the music

they make when they’re together.

You talk of the way

they danced

Atop the open flame

in the frying pan.

You made an entree to complete the meal.

“For your love,” you say.

For, My Love.

I say.