A Love Poem
Rachel Fitzgibbon |
You ask why I don’t write you more poetry
Ask why I won’t tell you I love you through words
But you just can’t see that I’ve already given you poetry through our lives.
Poems like this one.
One, like the single orange we shared at lunch, citrus juice running down my wrists as I split it into two halves
Two, like the pair of mittens I knitted you in the winter to keep out the chill, that turned out poorly, they were uneven and had three holes in them
Three, like the number of times I folded the piece of paper I gave you, blushing as I handed you a letter containing my heart where I asked for your time
Four, like the number of lines in the love note I wrote for you in August, written on the concrete in chalk and washed away by the summer storm that blew in five days later
Five, like the number of coats it took to finally cover that hot pink paint on the walls in your bedroom with a non offensive beige, the week before you moved out of that apartment at 6th street and King
Six, like the time you woke me up in the morning on a cold fall day so we could hike to see the sunrise, but we got distracted on the trail and missed it by seven minutes
Seven, like the number of miles between our childhood homes, and yet somehow we didn’t meet until we were well past eighteen
Eight, like the number of times I’ve slept on the couch after a fight and woke up the next morning to you pressed into my side, trying not to slide off as the clock ticks past nine a.m.
Nine, like the number of coffee mugs that sit on the counter since they don’t fit in the cupboard, but since they make you smile, I still bought you one more.
One, like the number of poems you say I’ve given you
As if the rest of it doesn’t count
As if you don’t see that all this, all the mugs and mittens and mornings with you
This too is poetry
