I

This is for my winter
and all the memories I sew onto him.

This is for my childhood relived
without the bikes or tumbles.

This is for my summer
and all the days I laid inside him.

This is for you, baby,
for being beautiful even though
men are told to be handsome.


II

I wanted to write you an epic poem.
I wanted to write a verse, a line, a word,

something to express the complexity of how
I can simultaneously love you so much and not enough.

It's 8pm.
I've drunk the dictionary dry
and the closest word I've come
to such a declaration is hope.


III

I just wanted you to know.

The first day I pieced apart
that classroom and saw you,

I knew.


IV

You complete me.

I never thought I'd say that
to any man, woman, scene or feeling

- but you do.

And you're not the glue that holds me together.
You are me and all my jagged memories.


V

You are my peaceful chaos,
my subdued laughter,
my violent calm.

You are my muse.
And my critic.

You are my lullaby
and, sometimes,
my nightmare.

You are my Holden.

You are my midnight and my morning,
my sunrise that never sets.

You are the one that slots inside me so perfectly
and finally fills this heart with substance.

You are you.
And that is more than I could ever have asked for.