i tried to love you
like a fist
like a knife
but your love was always
that of berries growing
softly and slowly
on the vine
and my love,
well, it always came
with teeth bared and ready
to taste your blood or mine
but your love was always
the fresh smell of grass
and dirt after the rain,
where i’ll stay outside
even though my socks
are wet inside my boots
and my love,
well, it held a knife
like a promise and a prayer
a welcome and a warning
but your love was always
patient and kind with mine,
held my hand and
cupped my face, bristly whiskers be damned,
like i was something precious
and worthy to behold
and my love,
well, standing there with you,
it threw up the white flag
and tucked the knife
safely into the soft
leather of your boot,
resting there beside the warmth
and life thrumming
under your skin