How have you been, without me?
I watch you when everything else becomes tiresome,
when all the gold seems like guilt,
when all the glitter is on the ground,
when there is nothing else to see,
I watch you miss me.

If this was a book, I would guess the end
before it came
I would know the villains from the heroes
—Judging from mustachios with a penchant for being twirled
—Judging from gleaming armor and soulful eyes
I wouldn't have to wonder at the meaning
or fight for it
I could say, 'I knew that would happen'
Chekhov's gun would be used every time
Everything would be impossibly simple and neat
all the loose ends would be tied in pretty bows
all the questions answered with trite wisdom
And I wouldn't be left,
wondering
at the end
I would simply fade
to the white emptiness
of an unwritten page

We call it Good
Victory in being vanquished
Daylight in darkness
Bearing a cross

Triumph in a tomb
Three days
And death is doomed
Passing like a night
To laughing day

Fear, you floating specter,
so hellishly real,
Greatest among the greats,
I held you at bay all day, all week, all the long months now
shoved aside during breakfast and at goodnights
But looming now, like a—Void
We meet here
And you kiss my eyes open
And you rock me awake
And you tenderly rip the heart from my Breath—

No more sorrow
No more holes
No more broken things—
like souls

No more chains
No more rust
No more death—
that turns to dust

No more pain
No more fear
No more shame—
with hidden tears

He came
He came
He came