Sometimes I find that the voice in my head
speaks in rhythm.
It talks in a tempo where the line
drops to the next.
And so, in these moments, I feel so inspired to grab a cup of coffee
and a sunny spot by the window
and jot out a few words that almost always become
a love poem.
For that little feeling that stirs like cream in the sugar of my heart
spills over until I write it down.
And I used to sit
in the back row of Spanish
and string love poems together like plastic beads
thinking I knew something.
Until one winter night
at a smoky bar atop a sushi joint,
he smiled at me with those same eyes that close when he sings lullabies
to our fourth-born baby.
And a decade later, I still
want to write something mushy.