emeralds are eyes that glow in
night’s perfume, dim, yellow light;
music is the warm cider of guitar plucks,
there’s a candle between us shedding tears
(gentle, just like yours).
heed the crackling fire; she tickles
i imagine the trees are quiet outside, because they listen.
i imagine the telescope you built the other night.
here, the birds sing to
your voice in the shower.
in the morning, but no worries, you still have your Russians.
Tolstoy. Dostoevsky. Gogol.
a rusty frame settled comfortably on your nose;
you wrote me a melody the other night, but
tossed it away and said it out loud.
nothing matters, it’s true.
(oh how i love that voice. and it echoed into the stars,
and the far-reaching cosmos.)
how absurd is it, then, that i still love you.