Date this was originally published: July 3, 2020.
i wish i could hold your hands
and tell you that when i think of april,
i think of you;
of blooms and blossoming,
showers and sunshine;
chill, and warmth coexisting
in the same flesh,
their red and blue currents intertwined
under dermis and epidermis.
you are a dance,
you are still water and riot,
an explosion in the suburbs;
how on earth do you doubt yourself, my love?
sometimes, i sit; confused, burdened by your refusal to see what i see;
do you not know that the sun withdraws into itself under the glare of your light?
do you not see that the stars dim in your presence?
and that from your lips come music that the Chevalier de Saint-Georges would never have dreamed of?
my darling, you are the rhythm of Tony Allen’s sticks,
you are a hymn; a song,
a testament to the power of the Almighty.
how is it that you do not see yourself as i see you?
what do you think i see when i cradle your face in my arms? i see you for what you truly are:
beautiful, the legacy of God himself.