The Sound of You

This morning I wake to music,

the sound of the cat lapping water from the glass on my nightstand,

and wish I could capture the softness with words.

The 1-2-3 rhythm sends me waltzing with you in the garden,

in the kitchen, kissing in the rain on the sidewalk,

and I wonder why I’ve only written love poems for the ones who broke my heart.

The cat is still drinking, and as you sleep,

I wish I could capture your softness.

Then it hits me.

Those love poems were never for them.

I wrote them as if the words might fill the cracks,

as if my own love might mend my brokenness,

as if, some day, I might learn to waltz.     

The coffee is steeping, and as you stir from sleep,

love spills from me freely, not to fill some void,

but because there is so much here.

Drink from this sacred fountain. Dance beneath it.

Like every love poem you have ever written,

this is and has always been yours.

  — Ashley Wahl