thirty hours later you’re asleep
and i’m sketching a portrait of something
beautiful. i’ve never been an artist,
i’m not doing it justice.
i don’t know why it’s hard to put into words.

a year ago i was lying on my kitchen floor
at two in the morning, struggling to breathe
around the feeling.
i was angry
because you were beautiful, and wanting you
felt like a betrayal.

a year after my mother died,
my uncle gave me a letter addressed to a man
with the name of my father
marked return to sender.
she wanted to tell him about his newborn
daughter
that would grow up watching her
falling in love with his shadow.

thirty hours later we’re crying
on a stranger’s lawn
because it’s hard to put into words
that i think you’re beautiful and i’m afraid
of having something to lose.

then i’m waking up in the future
with my head on your lap and you’re looking at me
like a portrait
of something beautiful.