For the Woman I Love and the Men I Adore

The 6th arrives
with a softness I did not authorize.
It walks in barefoot,
carrying the woman I love
in the palm of its hand
so much,
too much,
more than any day
should be allowed to hold.

She stands there,
quiet as a vow,
loud as a heartbeat,
and April 6th bows to her
as if she were the only compass
that never faltered.

But the day is generous,
or foolish,
or simply honest enough
to admit that love
rarely comes in singular form.

So the 6th also opens a door
to the men I adore
now,
in the after,
in the before
those who shaped the air around me,
those who carved their shadows
into my memory,
those who taught me
that affection is not a straight line
but a constellation
that refuses to stay still.

April 6th holds them all
without jealousy,
without judgment,
without the need to choose
between pulse and echo.

It knows that love
is a crowded room,
a layered myth,
a chorus of faces
that refuse to vanish
just because time
pretends to move forward.

So the day stretches,
making space for every tenderness
the woman who anchors me,
the men who haunt me,
the versions of myself
that loved them all
in different tenses.

And in that strange,
generous light,
I realize the 6th
is not asking for clarity.
It is asking for honesty:

that love can be singular
and plural,
present and remembered,
gentle and overwhelming,
too much
and still not enough.

April 6th knows this.
It carries my heart
like a handful of names,
whispering them
into the wind
as if each one
were equally true.