If happiness is a direction
then at least I know where I’m headed,
even if I don’t know the specifics.

A family of white-faced barn owls reminds
me each night that we aren’t meant to do this alone.

So here I am, you, whoever you are.
I’m ready to hold your hand even when
it’s too hot and my fingers swell.

I’m ready to kiss your morning mouth goodbye.
I’m ready to call you on your shit, as long
as you’ll call me on mine.

You can wake me at 3 am.
You can text me when it doesn’t matter,
and even when it does.

You can take me to your work parties
and forgive me when I over- or underdress, and when
you say all the wrong things I’ll be the only one

who knows exactly what you mean.

These days I’m using a different kind
of compass, one that only points to you,
mysterious you in every direction.

These days it’s not about specifics.
It’s about the little things that only we can teach each other.

It’s about a place we find together, a branch in a live oak
where we can sit, legs dangling, overlooking a golden slope

while the watery light fades
and the nightsounds emerge.

This is my heart arcing through the darkness toward you,
drawing a luminous bridge in its wake.

Can you feel its magnetism? I think this is what they mean by trajectory.


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