What is This?

It's not always the moon with its bluesy light floating between feathery pines. Nor is it the way the lake takes small sips at the shore after sunset. It's not just poetry or how I have already seen the first kiss. It's not the angle of elbows leaning on the railing as the mill below pulls the river. It's smaller than that.

It's dark red wine pooling in the curl of my tongue before it slips into all of me. It's the first smell of dirt in the morning at the greenhouse, before the sweat, before the vents open to the sharp blades of winter air. It's the 4 a.m. me thinking of the 4 a.m. you. It's soup and song and snow falling through woodsmoke. It's metaphysical and logical and insanity. It's Cohen and Coltrane and the Cure. It's right now and always. And maybe the imperceptible never. All of this. All of me. Seen before I saw myself. Sure, the sentence carves a rivulet through the fidelity hearts. But what is behind the crocheted gift of words and intent and origin? No reason to rush to the mailbox; no reason to find a way. And yet.

Night floats down and erases all empires. I'm sorry, but there must be more. How many blankets do you prefer, my lovely?

It is a kiss goodnight.