the real sin is not
in two men in love but in
choosing to hate love

I have yet
to understand
what it's like
to have
had touched
and tasted fire —
raging

to have
had melted
from a warmth
given off
by a source
other than
my own

and to have
been molded
into the image
and likeness
of a space
I didn't
create

I have yet
to gain
the CONFIDENCE
to cast fire
that comes with
having had
tasted you

on my knees — in a
way, praying that you won't take
your hand off my nape

don't be surprised if
my heart is at the bottom
of a barrel of
flowers and pointy daggers
— mind the cuts as you reach down

of GRAVITATION —
I want you near just as much
as you want me close

I don't wish to be
where you're not — your absence has
embittered life there

is it because I
have yet to taste that I have
yet to
           understand