Something mushy

Sometimes I find that the voice in my head

speaks in rhythm.

It talks in a tempo where the line

drops to the next.

Like this.

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.


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