When Larry, who no one believes will be 71 in August,
said you were beautiful, so beautiful that every time he saw you
he needed to lie down and take a pill, “a real drooler,” he called you,
you thought it was cute, and I did too, so long as the pill wasn’t Viagra.
But when I tell you you’re beautiful—because you are, so much so
I wish I ran marathons so I coud have more breath for you to take away—
you say it’s too much, because I’m sure it is. I say it all the time.
Like you with, Is there a reason. Is there a reason your clothes are on the floor of our bathroom? Is there a reason all the teacups we own are on your desk? Is there a reason you’re staring at me like that?
And of course there never is, which is to say there’s only ever been
one reason: Because you’re beautiful and I love you,
which is two reasons, but that’s just how I love you:
perhaps a little more than necessary.
So this is just to say I’m turning over a new leaf. Let it be known:
From this day forward, whenever I look at you and smile,
it means inside I am dancing at your stunningness.
And when I breathe deeply, it means, Yes, yes, yes. I will make love with you again if that is what you want.
But when I sit next to you, still, and hold your hand,
that will not mean anything different than what it always has:
That I want to be with you and hold your hand.