the aftermath of a shooting star—that is what you are. a star falls from the heavens, celestial light gracing mankind. here am i, a mere mortal, walking with an angel. how lucky am i, to have your hand in mine. what higher fortune have i to thank? i know not, for you are my lucky star.
you are what happens when ether fuses with clay, when the heavens fuse with the earth.
things that i think are sins:
you were shaped
like God
took his time with you—
the hidden hand
of the sculptor
carved you with intent,
like it relished
the shaping
of your lips,
the slope
of your hips.
but,
if this art
was by accident,
like
the splattered canvas
of a sunset,
then I’ll call
sheer randomness
my God,
and my savior—
for you are myth,
you’re poetry,
you’re music,
you are all things
divine.
who makes miracles?
I can’t say—
but, as far as they go,
you are mine.
putting words to our love,
the gravest insult:
like caging an eagle.
Humanity:
an angel
and a devil
handcuffed.
When the devil moves
his red right hand,
the angel’s left
is made complicit.
I cannot stop the atrocity,
and I cannot stop the slaughter —
so why am I responsible?
I don’t know—
but I am, I am.
your eyes could make a romantic out of a cynic
i hadn’t known
an answered prayer
could fit in my arms
until i held you.
we sit at the freeway’s edge.
you tell me,
“pretend the cars
are shooting stars.”
but here you are:
in my arms.
I have my wish.
a love most tender. god, let me love you.
what a gift it is to give love. what a gift it is to get to love. to be there for you on your roughest days. to be the one you trust. to make you feel better. to make you food, hold you, comfort you. to be the one you turn to.
god, what a gift: to be someone’s refuge.
i want to be that one for you. i want to be the one you can put the wall down around. god, more than receiving love, i think it’s getting to give love to someone. to see that trust, to see you soften at my touch. to be your safety.
god, what a gift.
this world is so cold. I need to warm myself by the hearth of your heart.
two pairs of feet, they peek out of a blanket. their legs, lazily tangled. they graze on one another, they warm themselves. there is safety in this scene. there is simplicity.
it isn’t a scene that is mine. but it replays itself, over and over, within my mind.
why is it that desire
becomes an ache?
I’ve never known a want
without pain.
to yearn:
it’s to hurt.
oh,
to cook for you
while you rub the sleep out of your eyes—
you alone,
my morning sunrise.
coffee in the morning. you on my lap. lazy, slow. we steal minutes we don’t have.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 