For Phil

This is not a love poem.

This is the moment
where I reveal I want to be a
bassinet for your pain.

The moment I take you in my arms
and cradle your shake.

This is the nursery we will stand in
while the earth quakes.

This is the moment,
where I watch the floorboards split in half,
but the rocking chair refuses to break.

This is where I reveal to you
that I am man-made
hurricane.

This is the moment
where winds rip like tornado,
sucking up your breath like you are lake.

This is the moment
where I reveal my heart
and you say it’s not a mistake.

This is the moment
where something of us is born;
where your tremors line up
with my open my stitches
and between these malignancies
we somehow create.

And this,
this is not a love poem.

But when the eye seems far away,
and when everyone else is closing in,
I will holding you like lightning,
drown them in thunder,
and hope you know,
this hand of mine,
is always yours to take

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