First of all, I fell in love with your deep boreal-born hands and all the things they create.
So I became a lover again for the first time, you, my beloved anew, I, amazed by the shapes you carve and sketch with a care far beyond settler state celebration of firsts and onlys. Weaving your way around the traps of legibility and doubt. Who taught you to be so certain? Who taught you the recipe for the reckless shining salve that spills from your heart?
On the weekend, we will wash each others hair in the sink, laughing as you play me the weirdest records in your collection. I won’t even get angry when you fuck up and leave a beer can on the table, as long as you take it slow, and tell me when my curiosity hurts too much to recount the friends you lost along the way.
There is a deep, raucous joy in your darkness from the northern forests that raised you up.
Let us stay here for a year without ever leaving
and listen to heavy metal in the mornings.
