To Hope to Love a Woman

This is not the kind of love that waits at the edge of the counter just to lick the spoon. This is the kind of love that Makes you want to grow giant peaches in the middle of a Michigan winter to feed her from the inside out; the kind of love that makes you want float on one of those giant peaches all the way to the middle of the Arctic Ocean and let your eyelashes freeze together just so you can look at her and say, "We're lost, but at least we can keep each other warm;" the kind of love where you have nothing to give but your empty hands and somehow she makes something of you. She takes you watery soul and turns it into wine and when you pour it out for her all dark and full and breathing finally breathing she can get drunk and her eyes will dance and glimmer like the Northern Lights and she will make you want to stand there and watch with your mouth hanging open for all of the 3 a.m.s, for all of the clear mornings, for all of the crying, screaming, bed-headed, too sick to talk, too tired to move, to broken to pull yourself up minutes. This is not the kind of love that waits at the edge of the counter just to lick the spoon. This is the kind of love that waits at the edge of the counter to lick the whole damn bowl even if the raw eggs give you a stomachache and you never want to love again. And maybe I can't grow a tree in the middle of winter. And maybe there will never be a peach big enough to sail. And maybe you can't turn water into wine. But I hope so Because this is the way I would love you always