I'd bend rules for you;
merge my morals and
desires in a plate,
tremors surfing
down my spine,
wishing I could
choose the
comfort of
righteousness over the
way your eyes flicker,
sending
stardust down your cheeks.
I'd set off forest fires,
burn
down whole cities,
as I come on steadier
and heavier into your home,
to
greet your fireplace
with my
embrace and
watch the light
I made
play itself on the walls,
as we
consumed more
than fire for
a night.
Sometimes
I wish you were
definite.
A constant, unwavering
silhouette of a future
I could run
to, with certainty
that after I make
it to the end of the
tunnel, you'd be
there with your
hands, reaching
for me, telling me, that
this is
all there is to it;
some people travel
around cities under
different names
and swim deeper
down trenches
to find this
but we
are absolute,
right now,
right here.
I look at the mahogany
and the
crystals lining
your table,
as I think that
we are perhaps,
a crack
in the roof of a house,
that only
allows
sunlight
and shields
itself
against snow.