How To Cultivate a New Crush

Lay strawberry hair

on fair skin,

let it redden like a crush,

pink as cherry blossoms

on the fresh dirt of hurt.

Bring skin

as soft as snow

as close to yours

as the sun in January.

Let it tilt your axis,

bring an end

to your winter solstice.

Notice first

how cold it’s been,

how dark.

Notice yourself growing old,

waiting for what’s locked

behind your God-given door.

Ask yourself:

aren’t we entitled to it,

to love,

that is?

Real love,

the kind that holds your hand

when you didn’t know

it needed holding,

opens doors

you didn’t know needed opening,

and helps you close

the ones you needed closing.

Listen.

The message is clear

in the music bending your ear:

You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

But maybe the point’s been lost—

what’s really speaking is this:

Stop looking for the one you want

to get the one you need.

Don’t let your eyes’ desire

be deceived by those you admire.

You’ve probably passed her by

a dozen times before,

and will a dozen times more

if you don’t stop holding that door

on what you’re looking for.

Let love open a new one.

Let her hair and skin,

whatever the color,

brush yours from within

the closeness of a revolving door.

Let yourself spin around,

be found

by love.

Real love.

Let the whites of her eyes

melt the snow in yours.

Let fresh tears trickle

down red cheeks

like rain on strawberries in spring.

Like a new crush,

turn the season of love

like a blanket on wildflowers,

and the sun above.