Katrina Kaye

At 2 am on a Sunday night/Monday morning,
he comes home and wakes me with one
of our favorite albums on the turntable
and an invitation to join him in the moonlight.

Before I can protest, he turns me
into giggles and interpretive dance
as we sing the words we know
and mumble the ones forgotten.

Without knowing it was possible,
I am child again:

up too late without supervision and
no fear of consequence or tomorrow
creating a secret language with my best friend.

Until—
exhausted from spinning himself in circles—

my love,

who dances with his hands
as if they held sparklers and conducted orchestras,
who flips the album over and over and over
because he doesn’t realize we listened to both sides,
who looks at me as if I am magic
and serenades me with a lingering lullaby,

finally nests besides me in the low light of the rising sun,
and slips into the sweetest of dreams.

I rest my hand on his chest and feel his breathing
faster than mine like horses galloping or
the rabid beat of evening drums,
like mercy and the ever-growing need for love.

Who ever thought I could love so hard,
and a human no less, so unreliable, so inconstant,
but I do. I love with my strong hands and slow breath
and the music in my mind. I love with all my heart.