Valentine Splat!

I know I profess not to like Valentine's Day. That's not a lie. I don't. But that doesn't stop me from writing about the love of my life. Stop puking now. Save it for after the cheese.

“Still…After Twelve Years”

If I say
that when I glanced
across the room and
your eyes
caught mine
in a tractor beam, that
my heart skipped a beat,
it would be a gross
miscommunication,
an underestimation of what
I really mean to say.

And to describe my sentiment
by saying it
was as if my guts turned
somersaults
or fluttered
would seem
too cliché; it's more
of a stutter,
a seventh grader sweating at
his first dance, ogling
at the head cheerleader across
the grubby gym floor: infinite
space and streamers and
longing
in-between.

I couldn’t use the words
palpitate (too scientific),
or salivate (too…well, you know) either,
to describe
that instant;
and twitterpate is too
childish and insignificant,
like I’m expecting a do-over for shanking
a kickball across the white-lined blacktop
while you stand watching.

No,
it's more
of a ratta-
tatta-
splat
that hits you square
in the chops—drenches you
like the sudden shock of an
unexpected
water balloon filled
with stale, cold
hose water on a
muggy summer morning,
along with the breathless
impact of a cornerback
upending an unsuspecting receiver
on a simple comeback
route thrown inches too high.

Yeah, more
like that, but then
again, it’s still not quite
right, because there are some
moments that the brain perceives,
with all its intellect,
all its knowledge and
power over language, but
will never
be able to communicate
my love
accurately.