I love you like
I never knew I existed-
as though I were just another thought
propelled aimlessly in space
but you exist
and you are all I’ve ever known of,
for your existence, darling,
is the tediously typewritten courier script
upon these parchment eyes of mine
and without you
I would be remiss of a story to echo,
and you and I
are two equally ripe parasympathetic orchards
and I will love your field of orange trees
even when the plot is barren and wilting,
have yet to desert the apple trees
despite their roots being termite ridden
and susceptible to collapse at the
slightest of picking.
But I hope that we end up
snug in the same wicker basket,
bruised and seasoned though we may be.
We are snapdragons in a psychopath’s sweater
and you are the patch of oak
that was harvested to become this
and I will love you no less than that.
No less than your sacrifices,
no less than all the seasons you’ve survived
and all the stars in the galaxy that
aren’t really stars
but rather macroscopic beings
and they will never love you
as much as I do.
Because I will love you like foreign
but all too familiar beings
watch our every movement,
for they cannot produce love
and they look to us humans to do it for them and keep them alive in its absence.
And despite the hate our planet feeds them
you and I will quench their hearts
with so much affection
that they will be able to live for ages.
Let us teach it to them.
Let us warn them of the dangers
of living without a “you.”
I am grateful most of all that you have stayed thus far,
despite knowing my most gruesome, innermost secrets.
Like that I hate palm trees,
and that is going to make it very difficult to honeymoon one day.
But I take comfort in knowing that if I proposed we save our frequent flier miles and seek solace on the moon a la Melies,
you’d at least play along.
And that is all I could ever ask for.
And when people ask how we are doing
I chuckle and tell them that you tolerate me.
But I know that it is more than that,
because if so your contented sighs would
instead be rolled eyes,
and I haven’t seen any of those yet.
I’m not just missing them,
because when I was five
I trained myself to be a secret agent,
and I passed the visual perception test
I scribbled onto a napkin with flying colors.
I like you because you would have been proud of me for that.
I could have given myself a desk job
and have been proud
because your smile is the only medal these days
that isn’t made from plastic.
And maybe you stick around
because you were never a Bond girl
and I never will be.
You handle my fickle passions with ease
and you let me write poems about you
when you are asleep on the couch.
Or at least you let me get away with it after the fact.
I’ll always tell you that I like the cut of your gib
even though I don’t even know what that phrase means entirely.
But in my ignorance, there is a purpose to every word I speak to you.
And I know that when I cross my fingers in anticipation,
hoping you’ll say, “We’ve sure got a good thing, kid,”
you’ll always follow through.
‘Cause I’ve got a face only a mother could love
and poetry she can never read
and you have a hump atop your back
that sisyphus himself could admire.
As far as I can see,
we make a pretty swell team.
Boy, you have got issues.
And I know sometimes you feel aimless
But I think you are the most remarkable being
to walk on two legs
even when you are knocked down to your knees
and crawling on four.
I promised myself I would never fall in love, and I haven’t.