This is it. This is the Poem.

I often want to write a poem—

a poem you’ll read and fall in love with me.

Each time I begin: This is it. This is the one.

But then I falter.

Because somewhere out there,

you are alive—

living a life I know nothing about.

So what can I offer but wishes?

And if we meet someday,

what is this poem then?

A bundle of dreams you never asked for,

an expectation I lassoed

around your neck

before I even knew your name?

I wouldn’t want that.

But to stay vague feels dishonest, too.

I’m full of visions I can’t help but hope are true.

And if you turned out just as I pictured—

wouldn’t you feel it, too?

So please, see this for what it is:

I imagine you with beautiful feet, tiny toes,

soft soles like the pads of your hands—

hands that cradle kittens,

that twist your shirt when you’re anxious.

Your eyes shine—

wet with sorrow and joy.

You laugh easily.

We watch dumb videos—

animals farting, hours lost in laughter.

You're a steady driver,

so I can daydream out the window.

You love when I’m dirty—literally—

smudged with soil from the garden.

I press a dirt-covered finger to your cheek;

you pull it into your mouth,

and we talk about the benefits

of soil microbes.

You care for your body—

not to be hot (though you are),

but as an act of love:

to stay strong, rooted,

to be well—for us.

Yes, us. We are obsessed with us.

Matching pajamas, phone cases with our faces,

“I’m with stupid” shirts, Christmas photos,

coordinated outfits, tagged in every post—

our Instagrams co-fan accounts.

You like the way I talk fast,

ramble, wander—

my thoughts spilling in every direction.

You let me excavate you,

delight in every poem,

even the messy ones.

My muse—

you see yourself in every line.

You are like dark brown sugar:

sweet, complex, rich.

You’ll love that I taste every note.

And still, it’s never enough—

never enough time,

enough days

to know you completely.

You bloom like a zinnia:

at first, a bold red blossom—

but tucked inside,

a ring of yellow stars

I only notice

when I stay long enough

to look closely.

So please—

let this be the one you read,

and fall in love.

I cannot try to live
or write
for a tomorrow
that may never come.