i want this kind of love.

Fingerprints on a Glass, by Willie Ziegenhagen
(For Ingrid and Chris)

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda

Your love will quietly weave
Throughout the world. It will be the first drop
From the coffee maker, and the last
Drip of the icicle on a warm April afternoon.
You will hear it in the gentle
Persistent hum of street traffic and the click
Of dog paws on wooden floors.
Love will fall from birdfeeders
With the twitching of sparrows;
It will be the worn out bits on the soles
Of your running shoes. Street lamps
Will splash love
Across sidewalks, it will burrow
Into beach sand and twirl with the tide.
You will find it on swing sets
At the neighborhood park on rainy days,
Tucked under couch cushions
With forgotten nickels, in the scent
Of red wine on a stained
Cork. During the days
Love will walk along the lake,
Admire the color of leaves, whisper
In the eyes of children.
At night, pulse reverently
On the breath of sleeping pines.
It will be the grease
On the garage floor, the chop
Of the skate over winter ice, the wind
Pushing against the window.
It will slip
Into the bookshelves of a crowded room,
Nestling between pages of encyclopedias
And Dr. Seuss.
You will find love
In fingerprints on a glass of iced tea,
The melted snow
Tracked through the house, waffles
With maple syrup, and the crackle
Of the record player.
When you’re distracted by the warmth
From the fireplace curling
Through the living room,
Wrapping around your waist,
Love will slip into your pockets, snuggle
Among the clean towels
In the closet, and sneak into the bottom
Of the mailbox. It will be
Library cards, the smack
Of the morning paper against the front door,
Chocolate sauce on a bowl of ripe strawberries,
And the scent of fresh cut grass
In the evening.
Love

So close that your hand on his chest will be his hand,
So close that as your eyes close she will fall asleep.