At last
"And if there is music hidden underneath existence, some secret symphony threaded through starlight and silence, then I think we are hearing the same song. At last."
I love you.
It wanders through me
with its wild-winged wonder,
its soft syllables stirring
the still water of ordinary days.
A place of riverlight and rose-gold weather,
of moon-milk mornings
and midsummer evenings
where the air hangs heavy with honeysuckle and hope.
I rest there often.
In the hush before sleep.
In the blue-bellied hour before dawn.
In the brief bright break
between one heartbeat and the next.
And always
there you are.
Beautiful boy.
Beloved.
The silk-soft pull of memory.
I find you there.
In the steam above coffee cups,
in train station echoes,
in the amber hush of evening
when the sky resembles
a half-healed bruise.
The heart is a strange house.
The language of living
suddenly lush on the tongue.
You.
Your laughter like lit glass.
Your heart,
that bright migratory thing.
Your soul,
moving beside mine
like a second moon
drawing secret tides.
I want the years.
The amber years.
The aching years.
The apricot mornings
and bluebird afternoons.
I want to learn every language
your face will someday speak.
Every joy.
Every grief.
Every gentle gathering
of time around your eyes.
And if there is music
hidden underneath existence,
some secret symphony
threaded through starlight and silence,
then I think we are hearing
the same song.
At last.
My beautiful boy, I love you.