On Tuesday,
there are poems
that want out of my mouth.
One of them starts with your hair
and ends with the silhouette
of you standing in my doorway.
How we knew before we knew,
how we can tell everyone that.
On Wednesday,
I find my body as a map
from my house to yours.
I want to make landmarks
in the shape
of your hands.
I want to make my limbs
into roads
that unearth the weight
in getting lost.
Roads that only we
will travel together.
On Thursday,
your arm is draped across my knee
in a dark movie theatre.
Normalcy becomes a light in the fog,
a position we fight to keep taking.
Friday,
we stay up in the secret hours
before the dawn
and it is here
that you tell me that you love me.
Since then,
there are a thousand more poems
that want out of my mouth.
Each one beginning
and ending with you.