it is as though she was melted
carefully down for you 32 years ago
and recreated to fit the broken pieces
or yet-to-be filled spaces of you.

she has always been there, my darling.
i realise now she is, in fact, exquisite.
my intricacies you once found fascinating
have all been momentary.

i was a bright red brush stroke on your canvas.
hair rising like smoke from the car window
snacks in your glove compartment, coconuts,
plans, work, medical bills, display suites and expensive finishes.

she is more than that.
she is your have to have,
the selfless part of you, the freedom to my restraint,
the non-judgemental, the early-mornings. she is all harmony.

she sees spain as a place of adventure and future.
i see it as nostalgia and tipsy siestas, old art.
she will place wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
will volunteer time that i never have,
provide you with honey-coloured children
all done by the grace of the sun and not a test in sight.

saturday morning i woke
from a night of restless sleep,
from angry selfishness, a night of comparison, a valium.
i lifted my face up to the warmth of the morning sun
and gave you back your heart.

i give you permission –
for the fuse inside her, throbbing,
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
who is hungry for all of you.

she is so clear and singular
she is the sum of yourself and your dream.
climb her like a monument, step after step.
she is solid. she is all you.

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