Blow

I hope you know how much I love you

with those late night calls

and laughing

when you ask why

I’m laughing.

I laugh because if

salt water

made you sick

I’d drain saline solutions on the bus

to the ocean,

to New Jersey shores I was reared on,

where even if I only

had a straw

I’d drink it down

to see you smile.

That’s why you make me smile.

I will someday say

“I know a boy

who made me believe

there were people like me

with hearts that survived a thunderstorm

who loved again

and deserved to be loved.

He gave me back myself

and all he wanted in return

was to hear that

hearts are muscles, and muscles have memory, and once in a while you feel your hand shake that of someone you recognize as the person that teaches you what the word truth meant to you as a child, like a Bible notation you left for yourself,

and eyes see only reflections of light to present color, and when I knew I loved you there was no subtext, just the image of what I’d been asking no god for all those years, just an honest to no-god love, without the subtext of sex or pageantry or reflex, we were new and shiny and honest and I like that about us,

and your legs will walk you back by reflex, and that night you told me that any decision would lead back here

in past lives

lived by divergence but always swelling up

to us on Logan Boulevard

saying we were supposed to be here.

So I come back each month

to the 18th to feel those

whenever-you-need-me moments again.”

Someday too late you will know how I love you,

like promises either kept

or washed away with the water I drank for you

from the Atlantic

to the Pacific,

medicine cabinets to

those tears I saw slide. I am

here.

We leave together.

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