My love believes fairies tie bows in her lashes
So her eyes stay shut when she sleeps.
My love nudges her cheekbone to my clavicle
in bed
My love speaks English like she just borrowed it, mashing
Its gears with phrases like
Goodness grief, and My last nerve
And never uses just one word, when eight will serve
Instead

My love leaves at least two matches in the box
Because one is bereft by itself
My love cries when actors who are acting, hurt dogs who are acting
On TV
My love uses a pretend spyglass to find treasure in rock piles
Scissors to carve paper dolls from gossip magazines,
Underlines Hemmingway, Lawrence and Woolf
And feels more alive
By the sea.

My love stomps leaves in the Autumn
And talks to oldies on benches
My love collects lost feathers and finds love between others
Profound
My love is dismissive of meals without crunch
Salads you can’t eat with a fork and gossips
Sharing secrets about mutual friends who then
Taint you to others when you’re not
Around.

My love sits at the front of the class and the front
Of the bus so she can understand first
My love would feel dismay for the ages if a guest left the home with
Empty hands.
My love is concerned that her love’s not enough and the person
She loves will find love somewhere else, but
Her love is exquisite and essential to life for this one
Who loves her more than she
Understands.

Bryson Thomas