While I Have Time by Jefferson Charles

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-

with desire

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.

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