10.25

A hurricane is coming
because the weather god wants chaos and swirling rain,
the kind that whips you harshly as you scurry from building to car,
car to building.
He wants the bright leaves to be ripped from their flimsy branches,
leaving only bleak brown shapes to speckle our skyline.
He wants power lines to fall like the eyelashes fall from your wide brown eyes—
crooked and out of place, crashing down on the sidewalks of your cheeks.

A hurricane is coming and if I’m going to be trapped inside this apartment
I want you here
stretched out on this too small couch, our feet mingling as I read you love poems
whose words are so tangible I get choked up
and inspired.
I want you to run beside me, between the daggers of rain,
stopping to steal a kiss with a forceful passion that overtakes you
like the one that overcomes the wind on its violently beautiful journey,
the one that makes it rip the bright leaves from their flimsy branches
because
it can’t help itself.
They’re beautiful.

I guess what I’m trying to say
is that I want to find you under the covers with me in the morning,
sweaty and tousled like your hair after my fingers have explored its jungle.
I’m trying to say that I think of you when I read Andrea Gibson and Pablo Neruda
and Ernest Hemingway
and I can write about the way your hands feel on the flat of my stomach better than
any research paper I’ve ever stumbled through.

A hurricane is coming
and it could rip everything away from my branches—
leaving me bleak and brown and ugly—
and I promise not to care as long as it leaves you behind,
as long as it leaves our love to speckle my skyline,
a resolute and weathered tree amidst the chaos and
the swirling rain.

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