To you who arrived
and sat tenderly on
the hills and valleys
of my heart, I am writing.
Here, there are forests to
wonder and hours to waste
enveloped in pleasure.
I have come to know you
as perfume knows memory,
as windows knows light, and
as streets know the quiet
after midnight.
I have known your skin
and wore it better than
I often wear mine.
Even time forgets it is
moving when you’re nearby.
Even hands don’t
know to hold after
holding you.
Even I pretend I know love,
foolishly hoping you don’t
notice that I have not been
blessed with a joy this great.
You, beloved, are all
the light I have searched for,
indefinitely. Open arms that
welcome me sweetly when I
am waiting, eagerly, to meet
tenderness that is you.
It is as though I have not dined
in joy, in wonder, in bliss of this
feeling before I entered your
apartment, your mind, or life.
I sit here afraid you
may be the start
of a real thrill
to my heart.
I sit here thinking
what a joy it is,
just to be next to you.
I sit here thinking,
and the more I think,
I wonder where you
have been every
time I needed
love like you to arrive.