I wonder why it is I love you.
Maybe it’s because your body is
made entirely of tilts:
the tilt of your head when you
look up at the stars, the
minor slant of the outside
corners of your eyes, the way
your clothes hang down from
your tilted bones, all diagonal
folds, some creases, such purpose.
Or maybe it’s because you
would understand if I spelled
your name in amino acids instead
of chemical symbols. You are
all carbon and no silver.
Maybe it’s because you would understand
if I told you that I could see
the yellowness of carbon hiding
inside your bones.
I think I might love you because
you love me back. You are like
a mirror dug up from an ancient
settlement, a mirror of onyx or
of quartz, that reflects all of my light
in scratches and angles.
I love you because on good days
you are the Hubble Telescope and
can see things the depth of which
I cannot imagine,
and I love you because on bad days
you believe me when I say I
can imagine the carbon-speckled
starfield inside your mind.
I love you in the way that
the universe got here, out of
the chaos, forever expanding,
misunderstood by scientists and
perhaps best understood by
a twelve-year-old girl on
a March night in Colorado
watching as if for the first time
the rivers of ice break the sky.