I once told him
that her name is not spoken in prose, it is only
whispered in the finest verses of poetry.
And he told me
that out of all the bullshit he’s heard, never did he think anything could get his ears to smell
“so rank.”
Now, he may have been onto something and, hell,
I may as well have been on something,
but I meant it.

He said she’s a mess and I said, sure,
but she carries it well.
It’s this sense of doubt.
She is dubious to succumb to herself.
She is elegance with a dash of skepticism.
She has been bruised
by high school gossip,
by the diets she felt she needed to force upon herself,
by the magic eight ball that consistently denied each and every one of her ‘am I good enough’s,
by her brother—twice divorced—who sent a bullet through his temple
(We were, of all things, surprised he could commit to anything.
And she realized that he only ever did what made him happy,
and she wondered what was so fulfilling in leaving to make his sister
so sad.)

And now she has burdened herself caring for too many lives that,
amidst them,
she has forgotten to care for her own.
Sleep soft, now;
she hasn’t in some time.

Though the night sky sits under her eyes she lets the dark pass her by to fix our indecencies as humans—
she wants to know why children grow up to be the very same monsters they used to fight under their beds:
these warriors throw away their swords,
show their teeth,
bark at strangers on the streets,
but she has kept on her armor that shines with a silver kindness to slay a frown, to calm a roaring dragon, to bring peace to those of us in pieces.

I am thankful.

She has given me everything and I have given her these words.
I hope it is enough, at least for now.
I would give her the world but it’s rude to return a gift to its giver and ‘rude’ is the last thing I’d want to be seen as in her eyes…
Her eyes…
Your eyes…

Pardon me, miss, I seem to have gotten lost.
Somewhere between your belly-button and your knee caps,
I was led astray by that small gasp reminiscent of theme parks and yoga mats
or our night-long searches for some Pad Thai or even some gingersnaps.
We’ve spent too many moments together for this one to be any less than perfect,
but all I know is that I’m shaking,
and you’re not,
and that’s a problem.
You see, this is not your first time,
but it sure as hell is mine.
These hands were made for drawing smiles in the corners of your notebooks
and nothing else.
I am overwhelmed by a sense of doubt.

Tell me I am good enough,
because I swear you’re way too good for me.
And if that piece of plastic disagrees,
if it says our stars are not aligned, well,
then let's leave the universe behind!
I’ve already witnessed constellations in your freckles,
solar flares from the wind in your hair.
I swear I’ve seen infinity in the arc of your back,
and I’m sending a welcome expedition with my roving Curiosity through your fingertips.

Tell me I am good enough,
because if you truly believe that you’re not,
then I don’t know what I am
anymore.