I was thinking about how I hadn’t written a poem about us yet.
I was thinking about your hands.
Their skin told skies full of stories.
About the lives they’ve touched
And the places they’ve been.
I was thinking about the night I knew I loved you.
The moonlight illuminated every freckle on your back,
and I raced to count each one.
I was thinking about the time we stretched our love all the way to Amsterdam.
We paced the canals each night
and it was in that moonlight,
reaching for your hands,
that I knew you would only love me
if the moon was shining on you.