Driving Home From Cookout

Why do they call it falling in love

When its less like falling, and more

Like a gentle slide, a slight rock backwards,

Tipping over, gliding to rest.

 

It comes in slowly like the tide—

Waxing, until like the moon, its clear

full and bright as we lift our faces to see it,

except I was only looking at her—

Brought about by the look in her eyes,

the long conversations, hours of

sitting in my car, not needing to do

or say anything, just sitting, the first kiss,

the nights that get later and later

as we share more and more,

dinners, lunches, and breakfasts eaten

together, losing track of time, 

ignoring the future, talking about

our favorite music, tattoos we want,

and the constellations, 

standing together in the bookstore

reading to each other,

playing her songs that I wrote for her,

refusing to fall asleep, then falling

asleep holding her,

time, time, time spent together

slowly builds until I look at her

and realize

 

I fell.