Because what am I if not handwritten letters,
signed, stamped, and sealed— writing tangled
as if perpetually in a rush to find you? And what am I
if not a flustered bundle of nerves and blood and skin,
pouring all of my wreckage into words and white envelopes,
either too deep in love or too busy looking for it,
always on the hunt for another bundle to belong to?
And who would I be if not a poet?
If not a soul nourished by the sun,
by long walks to nowhere, shoelaces caked in mud?
If not fueled by passion, addicted to the way light
falls gently on your shoulders, soaking up the way
you speak to me— lush and lovely in the dying light?
Because who am I, truly,
if not this strange way that I love—
sponge-like, obsessive, untamable
love? It feeds me. It sustains me,
this hungry way of living,
watching you breathe, and
needing to capture every color.
