To love another woman
you are never losing a second doing the wrong thing.
it’s always a Friday morning here
where we spend a decade in a minute,
She wishes it away so she can use it up
without spending it.
No exchange for the hours and hours of dreaming in bronze cinnamon
string angel hair curls, as they themselves speak back to her in hours.
She makes
dust trails the color of the sun, I’m telling you I’d kiss her shadows
She says try to stay
sick to my stomach
over you when
that churning feels
a lot like a first kiss.
at night I write next to you in bed. You love to draw or read or see or understand – it doesn’t matter because I just like that you love – and you do it here with me. Saying something simple but heavy like – I’m so glad you’re here.
I hold my sad away from me but when it creeps in, it sleeps between us in bed. The warmth there melts it and I am always healing in life.
Of course every poem. is about her
But can you tell
Every stranger’s smile every cold clean metal every green traffic light window plant park’s soft grass is a love poem to her too? When
I run out of words out of numbers out of languages out of keyboard. clicks. I still won’t approach everything she recalls in me, the earth she brings back to me and takes away. While we’re here, to love another woman is to love a woman is to love a woman.
Is to wear eyes on my body but a wonder that feels like soft lips and angel wings
I am blessed to have a forgiving Lord
That loves my lover. too.


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