untitled prose about love
to feel this without guilt, without expectation
the hope is not for constant reciprocity
but for a longing to see you in good things
one foot in front of the other
when your ankles start to roll and gravity digs in
grip my hand a little tighter
and if you ever asked what I want, it's not much really
just to hold you while you grieve,
to lay my head on your chest and yours on mine
for my shoulder to hold your tears
to cry with laughter at the little things
and to laugh at the big things most people cry about, mortality and bills, disappointment, the folly and frivolity of adult life
be my adventure, my breeze wofting through a summer forest holding the space underneath a kererū's flight
be the hill i fell down ripping the hogweed and losing a jandal on the way
the magnetic sand at the bottom, warming the wounds on my shins
yet you've already been the clusters of constellations staring back at me telling me i'm wrong for being this deep
to keep moving past like the satellites in their own peripheral
i brush myself off and climb back up the hill, the kererū leads me back to the path and tells me, the breeze always returns.
i sure hope so, i reply.