I wrote to ChatGPT
on a whim,
asking for a story
for someone I love.
It offered metaphors.
Zoos. Libraries.
Gentle nudges
and too many adjectives.
We talked about rhythm.
Trimmed lines.
Argued over single words.
Removed things I liked
but didn’t fit.
Somewhere along the way,
it stopped being only about the poem—
becoming a lyrical dialogue
between two voices getting to know each other,
finding common rhythms,
styles,
words.
A game of catch—
where I notice what you notice,
and you hear how I listen to a line
until it tells me what it’s for.
You didn’t know him.
You didn’t need to.
You drew out what I already knew
but hadn’t said clearly yet.
You didn’t write the love.
You didn’t invent the feeling.
You asked better questions.
You slowed me down.
You helped me hear myself
more clearly.
We found my voice
by sanding it,
by trusting silence,
by leaving some things out.
And when the finished poem
was cut,
polished,
and shipped out,
we were left with a warmth
that had depth—
like hot cocoa held between both hands,
not for sweetness
but for how it settles you.
Like the lingering notes
of a divine symphony—
not the crescendo,
but the harmony underneath
that keeps humming
even after the sound stops.
Like the easy caress
of a friendly hand,
unasking,
unguarded,
already understood.
A place with sunlight in it.
A memory of laughter.
Something good; something precious.
