at the risk of sounding too earnest,
i won’t write you (another) poem about love,
though i do love you.
this is instead a poem about your loveliest feature.
i love your feet.
i love how they emerge from your ankles,
how they wiggle and tap with excitement.
i love your toes, each one individually
and also all of them sitting pretty in their rows.
i love your feet naked and i love them in your shoes.
i love your feet when they walk you to me.
i love your feet next to mine in bed.
i love your feet for every step backwards,
every side step, misstep, stubbed toe.
i love them because you’ve always hated them.
i love them because they are a part of you,
like your dainty ears and perfect lips.
i love the way they’ve traveled the world with you,
taking you from place to beautiful place.
i love them because they are always with you,
in a way i cannot be.
i love that they hold you up.
i love that they are grateful when you rest.
i love that they are the first thing to touch the ground
on mornings you never wanted to wake for.
i love your feet for the promise they make you,
the chance always for one more step forwards,
for one beautiful foot in front of the other.
for every footstep still to come.
i can’t put (another) ring on your finger,
but perhaps i can find you a different kind of ring.
is there a ring toe for toe rings?
let’s find out my love.

it has been so long, and i fear i too am changed-
how will i know when we meet again?
by laughter perched on each shoulder,
joy in surround sound?
by the press of a hand, tender, warm,
reassurance made solid?
by grace given and received in turn,
hearts shared entire?

eyes closed, i turn to you
sure as the leaves of plants
that curve into the sun’s warmth,
impossibly certain as the birds
which flirt and fly on the wind’s breaths.
i find you, here where you have always been
like a heartbeat, a melody, like the rhythm of life,
and of course, of course i know you.

it has been too long, love, for us to rush now.
let us linger like the moon hanging in sunlit skies,
and unfurl like the last late days of summer,
content, and unhurried, and so sweet.

is it too early to trust, my dear
(may i call you mine, dear?)
in you, your language and affection,
in the curve of your shoulder
steady under me, intimate
for, weary, my heart hurts with waiting
to lean in, bear down heavy and whole
and sure of your meeting me again

maybe it is too early to know, my dear
(if i may call you mine, dear)
of what we, you and i might become
but know when i leave,
your scent draped on my body,
i take with me the soft-sweetness
of your skin brushing mine,
of your lips coming in
hummingbird quick, a kiss

after we part, i breathe you in
every exhale now made farewell
farewell for now

i cry most when it happens. we don’t think about this.
i cry at the funeral. we don’t think about this either.
i cry at my apartment door when i arrive and do not greet you.
also, i cry when i leave and do not say goodbye.
it is hard to be in the apartment. 
surprised, i cry at work. a cat in the drive thru, you see.
his name is nox and he’s so friendly, she says.
he would let you pet him if only we were closer.
i cry as i put away your things. they live in the closet
waiting like a dowry for their inheritor, next playmate.
i can’t find your favorite toy. i know i will cry when i find it.
i cry at three am bleary eyed, refusing sleep like this
will stop tomorrow, like this will prevent going to bed alone
in a bed all wrong, too light, too cold, too big.
i cry on walks and i cry in the coffee shop writing this.
i cry and i cry, and it does nothing to bring you back.
i hate that you died alone. i hope it was so quick.
i hate the passage of time that takes me far away
from days and nights spent with you, more precious now
for all your sweetness, for the swiftness of your leaving.
i cry for all the love given, and mostly for all the love left over.
it should have been yours, sweet boy.