I need you to know that the thought of “you” makes me want to run barefoot through rainstorms
As if somehow the clouds might contain the condensation of your city
As if I could dance in the dewdrops evaporated from your sweating glass on a windowsill, wherever it is you are
I want you to know that at night I imagine I can count the street lamps from you, to me
I want to pluck them from the ground, one by one, like wildflowers, until I have a shimmering bouquet of softly petaled light
I want to hand them to you, become captured in the infinity of your irises, and say,
“I’m here now, love. It’s nice to meet you.”