pop up books

You take me to the valley that you’ve told me I smell like

and I’ve never been here but with your hand in mine, I feel at home.

On the way, you narrate a physical history of you,

weaving a landscape of lazy river drifting and 35 kilometer per hour car crashes,

before my tired eyes, events come to life like some kind of pop up picture book,

the pages of which I sleepily turn while listening to my bedtime story.

And I would listen to all the pop up books you had to offer in the hopes

that I might uncover something about you that no other

person knows just to show you that I love you,

like no one ever has,

and no one ever will

again.

You may accuse me of paying the barest attention,

but my information retention is just fine.
I may look dazed but mostly

I’m stuck reveling in this backdrop,

how it’s brought new parts of you into focus,

like after it rains and everything is three shades brighter.

So I just grin and hold on tighter to your hand and this rare moment.

And it’s in these moments that I think that love was something invented

so that we could fall into it,

or over it, or onto it, somewhere near it, all I know is falling,

in the best way with your arms around me.

And maybe that’s selfish. But hell, I am a Bounty paper towel of self absorption,

I’m not afraid to admit it,

any more than I’m afraid to fall into this thing that was meant for us.

So if you want, I'll be your half sarcastic half enthusiastic co-pilot,

I’ll adventure with you until our aged bodies crumble,

and even a little after that.