WE HOLD THE SUN IN OUR FISTS

Our open palms capture
the morning’s glow as
the world awakens,
as slowly as the growing hole
in my heart despite
having you next to me.
Your eyes reflect
the first light of day;
each rising sun teaches me that
there is always love in ruins, and
I wonder if you know it too.

You hold my wrist in yours as
our footsteps tap tap tap
on dewy grass,
as new and fresh
as morning’s breath
when you lead me to the
bubbling brook below the hill.
Dawn kisses the rumbling earth
the way I wish your lips
would brush against my temple.

Colors spill and spread
from the watercolor sky
like a palette of pastel, and
I swear I can feel butterflies fluttering
and my heart skipping beats -
the damned tell-tale thing -
every time (I think)
you look at me, and
I jump to conclusions by trying to
give this feeling a name, so I
call it a crush,
call it love,
call it anything that’s real because
what if it’s not?

I must admit that
I’ve written your name
over and over -
on scraps of paper,

in books,
on my wrists.
I admit that
all my pens are familiar with
every stroke of your name
in every language
I have always wanted to learn.

Morning stretches softly,
widely, and
my hand reaches out to you
just to intertwine our fingers
in the quietness of dawn,
with all of the world
watching,
whispering,
waiting
for a confession.
But all I can say is that
my heart is in my throat
and your skin is
as warm as the morn, and
I can’t help missing you somehow.