Funny how we
are drawn to 
light but find
such comfort in 
darkness as though 
night is the 
lover and day
is the spouse 

Of all of 
the things that 
I have never 
counted were the 
number of cups 
to have met
my lips and 
just how many 
contained poison of
which I was 
unaware until it
was too late 

Clothes folded 
and placed
yours strewn 
like wrappers
and into 
bed we
would climb 
like mountaineers 
seeking shelter 
from storms 
beneath blankets 
until friction 
causes its 
own heat 

If ice were
hearts I’d don
blades and skate
across yours cautiously 
at first then 
with more abandon 
a few passes
and then once 
comfortable upon them 
into the middle 
I would go 
spinning and turning 
and feeling free
until I fell
and in falling 
I’d understand the 
humility of love