This poem was written as a letter to my best friend and partner. At the time I wrote this I wanted to show him what love was and how much he truly means to me - he often times doesn't believe it, but when I showed him this, I think something finally clicked.

Carter "Kit" Meyer is a poet, short fiction writer, and occasional singer from Orange, New Jersey, and can be found on most days reading a volume of poetry or humming under her breath. She has been published in Amethyst Arsenic, is the editor-in-chief of Seamless Magazine, and currently lives in Maine.

This love is an age-old fight of me thinking I'm no good and you thinking I'm an angel.
You whisper promises of adventures that we'll probably never go on but that's ok, because
it's the thought that counts, and you think I'm perfect –
however wrong you are.
However far from the truth you find yourself.
And this love is back and forth on the floors of hotel rooms and
heavy breathing and slipping into bed with you, breathing effortlessly,
dancing on the thin line between reality and rapture –
I can't sleep without you beside me.
Nobody knows the loneliness of a single bed when I've just gotten used
to a queen. Nobody knows that it's like drinking in the wind when I kiss you –
like rocking out to my favorite song –
like being published –
like learning what the word love really means.
What your name really means.
And in this life you are the boy from the biggest city in Maine that is really more like a town
and I am the girl from the suburbs of New York and together
we are the farthest thing from fragile.
And I wish I could answer all your questions, like "what happens when we die?"
or "what lies beyond that starry sky?" or what it means to be a person,
and I want to give you mountains to mold with your fingertips,
I want to give you the moon to hold in the palm of your hand,
I want to tell you that it's going to be ok – I'll make it ok –
that this love is sword play and tightrope walking.
That this love is listening when everyone else is talking,
that it's loud and bold and that I find you in every crease of my sheets somewhere
in the middle of right and wrong – singing songs to me,
telling me that I'm perfect, promising adventures, calling me an angel –
when in reality I've lost my wings, or maybe I never had them in the first place,
but all I know is that I want to give you something to wake up to,
a moonbeam in your desk drawer,
the words on this page,
a new pair of sneakers,
me.