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.
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