Daffodils

This month, I--like half of the rest of the writing world--am participating in nanowrimo. I've completed the goal of 50,000 words already, but am not nearly done. Still, I finished the chapter I'm currently working on and, flipping through some old files, I've revisited and revamped an old poem. I thought I'd share it here, for lack of other things worth saying at the moment.

Daffodils

I like the way your hand feels on my face.
When I turn to greet you, you’re always smiling.

There’s something different between us.
It’s subtle, but we’ve been the same for so long
even the daffodils notice.

If I recite Rumi at you one more time, you tell me,
you’ll probably go deaf for days.

I write so many poems about you that
I can no longer see you.

Early in the morning, my memories of you turn to sunrise,
but I think I'd cut out my tongue
before admitting it might be love.