Romance

Despite your struggles, and in fact because of them, I am in love.

You are barefoot, making me a cup of tea and embracing me with arms that extend half the length of the blanket, making its center droop around the nape of my neck. You hold it there, encapsulating my dissipating warmth. You remind me with a gesture of my own strength and abundance.

The sport of archery in your lip’s Cupid’s bow snaps at my clavicle. My skin remarks it—pins it—with tiny targets, my goosebumps.

It’s morning, afternoon, and night, depending on which side of the bed our feet rest on; the unfinished architecture of wooden floorboards hold up the weather’s weight. I’m shy, and you color my mood with blushed action. There is space and absence for light to illuminate and capture the pink presence.

Any space you are in, I feel held by the interior.

Your love touches me, follows me through the trees, racing the sunset in its slow immediacy. The anticipation lags behind my surrender. You meet me beyond desire into dynamics.