The Same Poem, Again

All the words in the world caught in my throat
when, once, I looked at you.
I could not utter a thing; the leaves
said it so much better than me in a symphony
of autumn’s crisper days and later hues: I love you.

I guessed love was not a thing one could sustain.
It seemed even then, a pleasurable ascent
to a moment of climax followed by a chilly sleep
where dreams were filled with echoes
of before we lost our breath in the full out sprint.

I cannot tell if I am awake yet, but it hurts to breath
with such rhythmic ease. It’s a strange cycle
that sustains us: grasp, hold, and, now, release.