If you were lost in winter’s hush,
I would follow the frost to your shadow,
wrap you in wool and warmth,
press a cup of velvet heat between your palms.

If you spoke in French,
I would gather each syllable like pearls,
wear the small beret of belonging,
sing Hymne à l’Amour for you
beneath a sliver‑boned moon.

If you marched with the army,
I would step behind—
not for the drum or drill,
but for the nearness of your breath.

If you were the world,
I would not let us fade into silence;
I would tear the sky wide open,
let thunder call our names
as the wind, a sly ventriloquist,
whispers of love
that bends but does not break.

If you were a bar,
I would wait at your counter,
listening for the first glass of laughter to spill.

If you were the law,
I would rise from the witness stand
and speak only what’s true:
that I am yours.

If you were a guitar,
I would trace your strings
until every note lifted like light
from the dark wood.

If you were a room of mirrors,
I would walk in without fear,
astonished, unashamed,
at all the shapes we might become.

And if you were my reader,
I would not offer sorrow.
I would leave instead
a feather, a breath of air,
a small flame,
enough to lift the clouds
from your mind
and from mine.