I imagine love
is a dusty rug,
heavy with the weight of footprints
and decades of stains we’ll never get out.
Come spring,
we can beat out our mistakes
with a broom handle,
the same way a boxer
may lose herself to the punch.
It’s in leaps that we lose ourselves
to the wind.

Taking chances
forces us to breathe,
allows us to feel something
for the first time
in god knows how long.

Morning glories
are so good at embrace
—reaching out to stalks, barriers,
and even the weeds we’d rather strangle.
You taught me the glory
in understanding flowers
as the product of work
and to experience rooting as an art.
So, I peeled back my ribcage
for you to plant something better there.
My ribcage garden;
You, a high-noon sun.

I lost count
of the days I could marry
the shine in your throat trombone,
where I would pour music to fill
your empty spots.
let me tickle your ivories
to hear you glisando
in tune with my trumpet bleating
(Baby, you toot my horn).
We can turn nights into an orchestra
—come, sit on my face
while I hollow your spine with my breath
like a bassoon.

That breath, my promise
to your safety net
to always be your biggest fan,
cheering on your tightrope-walker,
hoops-on-fire acrobatic leaps.

Someday, we’ll find a way to love
like it’s not our last encore.

We’re our best
when we stop fearing the fall.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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