Paradise

A cacophony of silences
A homemade shroud of stars
Elvis on scratchy vinyl,
Or Springsteen
Or Armstrong
And forgotten cup of tea
On the nightstand.

Sundance the banjo
Minnie the violin
Bo the big stuffed kaleidoscopic lion
And my small band of teddy bears,
Joe Jr., Kentucky, Sullivan, and Jesse.

My sighs and your sighs on a cold afternoon
We say we're taking a nap, but neither of us
Will shut up. We've too much to say
To each other, and so little time
To get it all out.

My room smells like coffee
And pizza
And onions from the greasy floor at work
And blackberries from my perfume
And dustbunnies on fire.

It's mine, and partly yours,
And little pieces of you scatter the place
And my food seems to disappear
Like magic
And you help yourself to my clothes.

It's new and cold and the neighbors are loud
But it's a place I can go when there's too much to know
And too much to do and I just want to sleep
And talk
And dream
And breathe
And be me.

You Made Me Love Banana Peppers

You're the reason I listen to
Jack Johnson, Kurt Cobain, Serj Tankian, and Aerosmith.
Your soul is music,
And in another life I might have been your melody.

You made me want to MAKE music,
Though you played my banjo better than I ever will.
I cried watching those web-cam videos of you and your guitar,
Because your voice was so soft and you never took your eyes off of me,
Watching.

It doesn't matter where I am, and I suppose it
Never will, but something's always there to bring you in when I'm alone.

Peach smoothies, the only thing I ever ordered from that coffee shop
Where we played chess (or at least we tried) and watched an entire
Mumford and Sons concert on your iPad.

Axe body spray, the kind that smells like chocolate,
because it's why I kept your green polo shirt and sometimes
Still wear it to bed.

A butterfly, because that was one of the first nicknames
You gave me.
You said it was because I always wore so many colors.

The color yellow, but not plain yellow.
Yellow like melted butter, the yellow that Crayola calls "Goldenrod".
You wore a shirt that color to that concert that changed too many things.

A phoenix, because you sometimes talked about wanting to die,
And I always believed you couldn't.

You held me tight in that cold little gazebo while I cried
Because I thought you were leaving me forever.
The wind howled and we both shivered but I was too busy
Getting snot and mascara on your jacket to care.

We ate frozen yogurt and big Italian sandwiches on the second day we met,
And went for that walk where both of us were nearly blown away, and I took pictures
Of all the plants and you told me what they were.
You dared me to try banana peppers and laughed
When I drank three cups of water, but I finished them all, and now?
I love them more than pickles.

You taught me what love is and what it means to fight
And apologize
And vow never to speak again
And talk for hours
All in one day.
You made me laugh and cry
And scream and whisper
And ache and relish
And smile and hate and love and cherish.
You made me never forget.

You made me love banana peppers.