Cricket

I have a lover who misses the woods, chronically,
and always smells like camp-fires in October.
He is made of light and wooden, flickering stars.
Sometimes we kiss, and it feels like
being hit by a wave in the ocean,
with salt and sunlight and stinging fresh air.

I have a lover who maintains distance and space
but has utmost respect for all our shared memories.
He has energy like a blizzard in Winter, electric.
We rarely disappoint one another, because our
promises are too secure to be malleable
and our empathy itself has sentient understanding.

I have a lover who anticipates darknesses
but works to make his hopes worthwhile.
He gives care with all of the breaths he exhales.
We laugh without hesitation, secure in our
inability to wound each other’s pride or hearts,
and not modest with our honest voices and open desires.

I have a lover who is dazzling and gold, like the Earth,
and soft and strong like all the other planets.
He does not show his insecurities until asked.
We forgave each other long ago for our mismatched time
and ill-kept rhythms, binding ourselves to parallel kinship,
which reminds us of how time passes but also remains still.