I keep imagining this moment will come, shapeless and desaturated, loose from any lines in my head. In it, you look up from your homework, or your work-work, or your phone-work and want to kiss me.
Then they will come in waves, in volleys, like cannon fire, gunpowder bursts and earthquakes only interrupted to keep from suffocating; open lipped and open palmed, reaching deeper through each other with our lungs, caught like cotton in the bushes.
This morning, while you were in the shower, I laid your clothes out on the bed because I love you, and when I was in the kitchen you came out and saw it and said, “He loves me.”
Some things come to us in a rush, a windfall thrill after a swipe right, a voice directed at us in a noisy bar. We are unprepared for them, they are unseen, and the shock can overflow with new desire, a bright well in the darkness, we fall in and drink their kind of truth.
We are not like those. We are not new. Not unknown. Not overwhelmed.
What we are has taken a decade to become, as everything else has burned away, now only these remain: A dark purple soil. A clean field of summer. Blood. Flame. Arrows and swords like flowers.