I would pull Diana’s lips from the sky
to kiss you, to teach you what it means.
Yours is a thread I’d gladly trust
to lead me from my Minotaur,
if only I could free you from your beast,
that bone-laced gremlin riding shotgun.
I cannot bear to ask of the transgressions
you have purged on bathroom tiles.
I am muted in your presence.
Your fingertips shock flat-lines
into Pop Rocks.
Walk with me where we can paint trees
with leaves of smoldering jam
and spread tomorrow with our favorite marmalades,
toasting one another with a split-top kiss.
We have walked our puppet lines for far too long.
Tonight is ours.
Clip your strings and dive with me
headfirst into a Willy Wonka pond
so we can breaststroke one another’s hours
candy-dipped water-winged and floating
on lemon-berry lily pads.
I can’t cuddle with regret,
but I will try
to finger paint your eye-
lids back open.
There’s a lot of life left
worthy of your image
at three in the morning.
These words are all to say what I only
have the heart to tell you
in Chaplin’s voice.
I’m no miracle.
Just a guy most days learning
what it means to be a man.
I’ll listen if you want to talk,
sit with you when silence between strangers
is silence between two strangers.
My tunnel’s burning on both ends
and I can see my closet monsters
preying beneath your skin.
I will tell you where I’ve been
from here to where you’re headed
but I can’t stitch a destination.
This life is all the quilt I’ve got,
every patch an accident.
I will get lost with you.
Together we can stumble, stark blind,
hands outstretched, grasping for a beacon
only faith knows how to find.