I love you —
it’s really quite simple,
those three words,
so quaint;
I inform my mother
of them,
before we entrance
our minds
with vivid,
colorful,
luscious dreams.
Last night
I saw you in my dream,
standing there,
smiling,
mouthing something
I couldn’t catch,
couldn’t grasp,
but don’t mistake me:
I reached for it
so far, so long,
it hurt.
I love you —
those words
so simple;
I inform my father
of them,
when we sit in the morning,
sipping bitter
black coffee,
reading the newspaper,
complaints persistent
of $4 a gallon.
This morning,
I saw your reflection
in my bitter
black coffee,
mouthing something
I couldn’t grasp.
I didn’t reach this time,
I knew better,
but I wanted to know,
oh,
I wanted to know.
I love you —
such a simple phrase,
I was prepared to
inform you of it,
when the sun hit
the center sky,
but then you
smiled and said
“I love you, too.”
It’s no wonder that you knew.
