Things I can tell you now/I couldn’t tell you then.

One. You taught my lungs how to inhale
joy instead of cynicism twenty-four hours
into knowing me. You are a type of oxygen I
quickly learned to breathe.

Two. When I told you I no longer believed
heartache was the only fuel for art, the
point I was actually trying to make was
that you made me want to write happy
poems for the first time in my life.

Three. The very first time you called me love,
you thawed centuries-worth of icicles
barricading the way into my chest and I melted
into an ocean of forever needing you.

Four. The first time I told you I loved you,
I was so overwhelmed by that epiphany that
all I could do was curl into myself  and sob
acceptance into my open palms.

Five. The first time you bore your skin to me,
I crawled inside your pores and turned your body
into my permanent home.

Six. The first time I had to leave, I converted
my heartbeats into instruments of time measurement
and counted the lub-dubs until I could fold myself
into your arms again.

Seven. Love, you have redefined leaving for me
so that it is no longer the thing I keep doing
uncontrollably with my feet, but the very thing
I keep begging you not to do whenever I am half-
asleep. Love, you have redefined holy for me so
that every time you raise your head in search for
god, I am finding him in the details of your face.
Love, you have redefined love for me so that it
no longer rhymes with loss and ache.

Lover, the first time you said hello, you turned my
heart into a fist-sized Sunflower and I knew then
that the only light that would make infinite flower
fields out of my chest is the ethereal glow you radiate.

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