Poetry warning

Thoughts that linger hours after a conversation


I wanted to love you like Vinicius
maybe Yeats or Neruda
or, even, Sappho.
All that bright, open devotion
that clearness of intention
the immortal flame
the glittering armor
the distant stars
the spread of dreams

That.

Instead, I love you the way
the honeyed scent of amber drifts
from an open drawer
and makes itself known
with the hopeful caution of birds
calling out the clear skies
after a month of rainfall
and with the same promising warmth
as soft winter sunlight
that cuts through the cold
and feels almost like summer again.