Dandelions, Baby

I try to write our story, the night spilling across pages like water, like ink, like anyone who ever said that we weren't enough, like
they had any claim to us, to our trembling half-thoughts, our coliseums collapsed because we weren't yet done building them.
I try to write our story, watercolor
coffee and berry-red tea, the way your mouth opens wide eyes sliding towards morning light, hopeful
that all our castles stay standing like new leaves clinging to shivering buds.
And I'm careful to get the words right, something like vaguity and bravery and
your particular doe-eyed kindness, first step shaky, first kiss like the childhood we both deserved but never got.
Gold leaf tissues, not a single thing wasted in this garden - I turn to give you azaleas and you give me back a suit of armor that keeps us both safe, snake and ivy gauntlets reach out to hand you the moon.
Someday I'll watch you from the doorway and you'll be whispering holy words to muddy children, writing our story like it's nothing, the words flocking to you like gulls that came in with the sea breeze tide. You'll pull a blanket up, spin paint like sand like sky like ivy, we'll go
to bed in bronze statues and I'll bend over desks and keep writing, keep writing, keep writing our story,
the night spilling across pages like water.

in the morning you'll pluck the sun from her branches, juice running down your chin, sticky hands meet and dress us in soft blankets and a good meal and little brothers growing taller until they too learn how to kiss the sun goodnight, and
suddenly the pages will glow and drop wax like topaz and we'll be home, like always, like always, like always.