And I’ve written a thousand poems
about love
having never held it
in shaking hands,
having never whispered it
with the sacredness
of a prayer.

And I will write
a thousand more
until my blood is heavied
with rust and salt,
until my bones wither
beneath the breadth of gravity.

I will die alone
but I’ll be damned
if I go quietly.

And if this is the last thing
you ever read,
then God bless you, tired child.

Be at peace with the world,
let me tuck you in
behind the walls of my heart,

Stay awake with me.

Know that I love you.

Wait for me to write it
a thousand times.