I do not presume to think myself her equal

I am satisfied to be her complement.

I am satisfied to have her listen to my ramblings

I am satisfied to have her smile at me

I am satisfied to admire the slope of her nose when she tilts her head to think

I am far beyond satisfied to know she is mine.

I’ve dreamed of her fourteen days in a row

They’re not always restful slumbers

Half the time I wake up, a damp cold seeping into my bones

Legs caught in twisted covers

Questions replaying through my mind like some exhausted melody

Who am I? Who am I to her? What might I become to her?

There are three words I am afraid to speak

Afraid of reciprocity

Afraid of the fact that as soon as I say them once I won’t be able to stop myself from saying them over and over again

At the end of phone calls

In signing letters

In poems and portraits and just in passing time.

I do not want to spoil it by saying too much too soon.

Good things, like tea, take a little time to brew.

And I will wait as long as is right, to make sure this good thing remains unbruised

She can tie my hair up with a periwinkle ribbon and I’ll brush the grass from her lilac skirt

The picnic basket will be stuffed with good things

Lavender lemonade and cherry turnovers and tomato sandwiches

The bumblebees will provide us the perfect white noise for an afternoon nap under the weeping willow

I can’t wait to hold her hand.