Words never seem to grow out
of me - not like the way they sprout
one by one up from your heart
and entwine every part
of me. What have I done
to be loved in this way?

It is all I can do to say,
"Thank you," or some other phrase
that is so insufficient
to echo the praise rushing at me in torrents
of undeserved grace.
Puddles pale by a sea.

And yet words were supposed to be
harder for you than for me,
so they told us.
"That's marriage," I guess
it is, often, but not in our case.
You abandon the mold.

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