Sliding into silence, you approach my open door with roses

rough against your palms and no voice in your bitten mouth. I am starting to scale

my piano, and you listen behind the staircase. I pause, I stand,

I see you. You are so beautiful when you are nervous.

My hands search your face for familiar softness, and my eyes

close as your mouth nears. I am not a woman of action, but you know

I will say something later. My roses, they are dense darkness,

some splatters of ink and some slippery slumber. You see though in that

somewhat sleep some dream that lures you to bed. My bed. My limbs are slim

and my hair long, but you say my arms are strong enough to hold you and nothing of me could

get in the way. I worry though that my arms will not be able to hold your child and my hair

will hide my face. To be lost having been found is terrifying, and though I have friends, I

cannot consider life without you. My hands had never been

held until your hands held them. My lungs had never kept in the air. You, though, you

saved me. You told me I was your wonder, and you made a dictionary of me and bound it

and everybody said you were mine. You waited for me to stop

running from you and the possibility of possession. My having a purpose, I could accept that,

but having you was not in my plans. You settled for spare nights, leftover

pizza, and no mornings after. You came on planes for those, and I could only

curl my body around you and call you my darling. Always I had poems for you, though,

and I think those kept you with me. You said I was certain, I was stirring, I was

special. I thought if anyone was my one, you were. I met some other people,

hoped some other hopes, but guilt gouged me as you loved me, and my love never

went anywhere but back to you. You love me for my roses, aye, but I know

you love me because of something more. My soul is

your soul. My heart has always been beating your way.