To love means chasing a feather
till your shadow’s out of breath: take me with you
slowly as falling snow you chase her, unaware of yourself,
you forget who you were and your family.
To love means being a child
drawing a terracotta figurine in the dust.
Trees do not stand still before you; they raise you,
comb your hair towards the sunrise to parade you
as good tidings for the fruit.
To love means seeing the fingers of the butterfly
knitting your life anew at thirty
dancing for joy at you
midwife of luck.
To love means paying attention to tiny details
to know your heart that beats
on your chest with the concerto of beginnings
as you seek refuge in the crescendo.
To love means hanging without fuss
from tender mercies
as the dew flows over your cheeks and you wake
from night a lilac that makes the morning green.
To love means you’re romantic: you persuade the wadi
that the sea had dried up
yet it will become a river if it flows through you.
You teach mountains reverence before your emotional vastness
soaring akin to sublimity
and the impossible.
To love means growing younger
and the fear of death dying
you ride the wave, not to escape but to rock your body, to sniff
what others do not sniff: water’s relationship with water,
the sugar grains of creation.
To love means there is a beloved
and that you are a fool:
she makes you jealous of herself, and fuming
if one of her lips touches the other, to become
if your share her with her lips, a god without partner
in the firmament of kisses.