the love poem I swore I’d never write

the love poem I swore I’d never writ (I can’t seem to add the proper ‘e’ on the end of that. ARG.)

for you, I’d give up coffee. I’d
stop drinking, not hesitating
to spit out the wine in my mouth.
I would cross the street without looking,
strip off my clothes in silence, curl
my body around yours like a scream,
willingly kiss your secrets, your pain,
the wounds that walk in your smile.

for you, I’d sing softly, hold you
when you need it, without you
having to ask; just look at me like that
and I promise to fix it. don’t doubt
that I can and I will; my touch
is a miracle, footsteps over water,
enough bread to feed you
whether you’re starving
or just need a snack.

for you, I’d give up everything, cross
the country without blinking, cross a border,
cross an ocean, leave everything behind
without looking back. It will hurt,
but I would not regret it. I would go
wherever you go, because home
is not a place, it is not a state,
or a street; it does not have an address,
or a postmark; home is a kiss
and hungry fingers; home is love
confessed in a ragged breath;
home is you and me,
and us and we, and here
and this.

for you, I am,
nothing less
than always yes.

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