I’ll write you while
I have time. Freedom is
In the ether and feels far from here and further than anything attainable.
It’s nearing 70 degrees
and these are the months where buds decorate the streets that lead us home.
Petals and fresh pavement carry me far
like caravans, or the sound of your voice.
On my walk home
I was thinking how the spring path was your iris; thinking of you and how the universe disappears and returns when you decide to blink, and that the chaos of reality
may simply be your reflexive choice.
That the world’s truths and secrets
are obscured at night
when you shut your eyes in rest.
How they flood my psyche
like oceans in a shot glass,
whenever you awake.
I was thinking, and that alone
begged me to write you; I must confess
you touched my face with your lips
(you can bite til my bottom one bleeds)
-as soft as the sheets,
softer than the queen sized mattress those sheets cover-
heavier than the grief of the year,
and I left your crib smelling like Versace.
We steer from love for one another
with care for each other.
And I confess again,
questioning how human I am with my remaining secrets free from me now,
that I’m grateful to have such a friend.
That the remainder of my humanity,
is a small price,
in expressing adoration
for the movement of your body
or the stillness of your picture.