I love that you can stare at me all day long.
I love that you can make rights out of my every wrong.
And I’m left using both hands to gesture my excitement
When I talk about the day my heart began to syncopate for the very first time.
Oh that day.
It was quiet.
Quiet like those moments seven seconds after putting the third kid to sleep and you’ve found just enough time in the evening to hear that drumbeat in your heart hit quarter notes…you’re so excited…because you know it’s going to get noisy again in the morning.
It was peaceful that day.
Peaceful like a ballon escaping from its bunch and finding solace in the open skies above Disneyland.
But you’re careful because you know Tinker Belle is six seconds away from commanding the sleeping giants to wake up from their slumber and ignite the horizon.
Ok…maybe not so peaceful, but just for a moment…that day.
The day you harmonized with the glee club of birds causing swells in the ocean so big that land began to matter.
The day the stars twinkled for the first time, which I’m beginning to think was the day your eyes bashfully lit up when you looked at me for the first time, slowly nodding your head with approval.
Yeah I’m that guy.
The guy who stood in awe as you articulated the heavenlys into endless haikus and you masterfully juggled the night into day and cross faded them once again, juggling the night into day on the vinyls of eternity.
I’m that guy who drools at the mere thought of you causing the sun to slip into a circadian rhythm that rapidly moves my eyes back and forth in bewilderment because of your majestic beauty.
I’m that guy who freezes up with nervousness when I mesmerizingly gaze at your reflection dancing underneath the spotlight of the moon.
And soon the sun wakes up again and you breathe that much more heavier.
You love me unconditionally and you joyfully serenade me even when I’m not paying attention.
Your peace can patiently rope me back in when I’m not listening.
Your kindness is better than charity and your goodness is humbling.
But it’s your faithfulness that gently reminds me of your self-control to love me no matter what.
Your spirit is so fruitful that I can sink my teeth into them and juices would gush out just as they originally did in the Garden.
And even though time has gone on, I remember it like it was yesterday.
With dirt in your hands, you whispered sweet everythings into the cool of day and the syncopations of my heartbeats pulsates a little more fancier, so much so that break dancers left holes in the middle of their linoleums.
You…you looked at the vast of your creation and knew Michaelangelo would even be jealous.
Leonardo couldn’t even code this.
And Banksy’s epigrams lose their satirical whim next to your magnificence.
You spray mists of excellence onto the ally walls of eternity and flare sparkle effects on the eyes of Jupiter.
Your compliments sweeten the Milky Way.
And your humor causes chuckles so energetic that astroids collide into each other there so distracted.
You look down once more as grains slip through your hands and you gather back as much as you can…and blow.
And, as you soak in the splendor of your masterpiece, all you could say is, “It is very good.”