Alphabet

Words waltz around us
separated by single letters.
It is as if every one slides down like wet paint
across the lines of our lips.
Such heavy gloss on our words.
"I" means "I love you."
"W" asks, "Why?"
"B" says "Because, I said so."
Often nights, I whisper this comfortable alphabet
right into my own reflection.
I peer at what has turned this child
into the man I see myself as today.
Love. Sentences. Paragraphs.
We are all letters to one another.
I think of my letter "W"
and let my eyes look down,
heavy at the heart of my hands.
I make my way to the glass.
With a damp paper paper towel,
crossed, tucked and neatly folded
like my mother's dinner tradition,
I move the water marks away
from the bathroom mirror
and find my answer.
"Because love you, too."
The whites of my eyes
suddenly strain, water
and turn a soft pink.
"I love you more."
The mirror peers over its reflective shoulder,
inflates the invisible lungs
and makes sense of what these familiar letters mean."
Family is my alphabet.
I am who I am
because of the letters within it.