I explain to her that I have been searching for the warmth of mother’s milk in cups of whiskey for far too long and she just laughs and says ”You’re such a fucking poet.”

I almost say to her that I want to read her like a fucking novel, even though I know that is cheesy. I want to familiarize my self with all the innocuous details, know what her favorite childhood cartoon was, the story behind her middle name, the reasons why there is a scar beneath her left ankle. I want to crack open the contents of her mind and pour it into a wine glass to drink. Get drunk off of it.

 I want to tell her that before I met her, sleep was something I merely ascended to - now it is a sanctuary - an eight hour long movie where my mind replays all the things she has ever said to me over and over again and that even though her mattress has a thousand and one lumps in it it, I don’t care because I feel safe being so close to her.
 But instead my words tremble and I say, in a little whimper, ”Yeah, I can even write haiku’s.”

 She lifts her top to scratch her stomach and I see her ribs and think of how much colour she’s breathing. There is this mark next her belly button which looks like a tiny leaf, it reminds me of autumn, the beauty hidden between the burnt out orange leafs and that danger of knowing that they will die in the winter.

My mother once said falling in love feels like dying. I don’t feel like I’m dying. Do you how us humans are made of star dust? I feel like that. I feel like I am the entire galaxy.