If I could write a book, I would write of all the moments of love that I have known
And put them together seamlessly so that anyone could see and understand.
I’d write of the silence that piles up in the morning and is broken by the first rays of sun,
The glance of a new lover that sits like an earthquake, when you still believe in hope and love that lasts forever,
I’d write a circle of stoners in a living room full of dirt and ephemeral dreams passing around a joint like it would save them from themselves,
The heat of many bodies that somehow clings to your skin, claims you for its own,
A woman sitting alone on a couch with a TV dinner,
The kindness of the breathless night, the trembling moon, and the sky that is about to burst with stars.
I’d write an elegy for the raindrop that splattered on hopeless asphalt and caught the light and my heart,
Another elegy for my first love that I thought would be my last,
I’d write a poem for all the young lovers that have discovered their own power to create something larger than two people,
For all those who have forgotten what a gift it is to wake up to the soft dumb reality of someone breathing next to you.
I’d write of the eloquence of eyelashes, the heartbeat that fights its way to be seen at the throat,
the warm breath in my ear whispering something like love without words.
There would be a poem for the kind tears that fall to comfort an aching heart, my own aching heart yelling like a madman for love, never realizing that it’s right there all along.
There would be an ode for three in the morning, for all the sad drunks who ache like my heart and don’t know it, for the triangle of light that shines in my eyes when I don’t want to wake up.
More than anything, I would write a poem for all the people who have forgotten what love is,
who have forgotten to appreciate a smile, a dilated pupil, the stale breath of morning for what they really are.