i begin wanting to write you a love poem.
for so much time, i have not one to show.
not one made for you to read, anyway.
i feel for you feathered fire,
hovering, entwined, falling.
this is where i fail to end and you cease to begin.
if we continue to sail paper ships with smudged messages to each other,
will i still i think of you when i am in the rain?
i love no place better than in your arms
no home, no room, no ocean.