I like the sound of your voice when you read-
like a wave gently kissing the sand before
receding back into itself.

I’m treading new waters,

you texted me once. You’re calling me now,
though. Have you called to read me a poem?
One you inhaled so deeply into your lungs,
the billows of vapour kissing your lips drop
each letter into my inbox like a sun shower?

I’m lucky to feel the warmth from your light.

I read that text to my therapist because
it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

I feel like we converse in poetry.

I can’t help that the only words worthy enough
to describe the way my heart steadies to the beat
of your breath are already found in weathered pages.
Your veins are glass bottles. I know this because
they carry all this waterlogged wisdom. I’ll prove it.
If you bleed me a desert, I’ll display the sand
with my finest kunzite. If you bleed me
sleigh bells, I’ll invite you over for family Christmas.
If you bleed me dollar bills, I’ll save them
in a mason jar so you don’t have to worry
about making rent. If you bleed me subway tiles,
I’ll put on my trusty hardhat and build us a bathroom.
If you bleed me any of your own blood, I’ll clean you up,
bandage you with the softest gauze, and find you
a thoughtful therapist-one who just wants you to flourish
as much as I do. I know I’m not the one leaving the voicemail,
so I’ll keep these words in my poems until I can write
a collection even half as impactful as you have been to me.

I have literally never had someone write a poem about me.

The voicemail you leave will be my next poem.

I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I miss you
and your sweet laugh a lot and I think about your smile
the way it’s like you tuck your dimples behind your ears
when you do because it’s so wide and cute and subtle
and I just want to kiss your nose.

I smile, even though that isn’t what you say
this time. You admit you’re not ready to start over.

You never have to stop starting over.

I know.