I love her
Jackie, I mean
like the night loves the streetlamp,
like the last breath loves to linger
before it forgets it’s supposed to leave.
She talks and I don’t hear the words
I hear the way the air bends around her,
the way it folds into my chest
and leaves me gasping.
I love her in the silent spaces,
in the cracks between my thoughts
where I forget how to be myself
and she finds me anyway.
Her laugh
I swear I could follow it
like a breadcrumb trail through a war zone,
like it’s the only map I’ve ever needed.
Her hands, her hands,
god—her hands
hold my failures
like fragile glass
and somehow I don’t shatter.
I love her like I’m scared,
like fear and devotion
got drunk together and made a child
and that child lives inside me
and won’t stop screaming
her name.
I love her when I’m ugly,
when I’m impatient,
when I’m nothing but a mess
of late nights and bad decisions
and she loves me like that
too
like she’s reading a poem I didn’t know I wrote.
Jackie, I love you like survival,
like heartbeat, like the quiet
after the storm
when I realize
I’ve been holding on
to the right person all along.