Good poetry is bravery in ink.

the audacity to exist without permission

–Yecheilyah Ysrayl, The PBS Blog

The cold winter settles in, cracks

my brittle porcelain skin, streaks

grey glitter into my hair, then

I meet you.

Your deep eyes open, a blue sea

surrounds me: I am taken in.

The water rushes over me, warm;

my fractured heart begins to thaw.

No-shave-November blankets

your smile in golden red, your face framed

in grizzly brown curls. I swoon.

You pray for me while with me, tears

God has collected 3,650 times before.

My lungs collapse in awe and wonder,

disbelief that you’re for real, expressed

in one word: Wow.

You ask for a translation.

I send you this poem.