I saw your face and paused
Had they lied to me?
The relief flooded in.
I rested, buoyed for a moment.
Until I sank
Under the weight of reality.
It was your blood
Your genes
But your brothers face.

100 fingers in a pie
Form a lattice
with the structural stability of
Baklava.
Liable to flake and crumble.

I could sit here hopeless.
A beige life at a beige desk
overrun with copper coins, constantly
counting, clutching,
capitulating in favour of
blue skies, white clouds.
Infinite majesty a roaring in my ears.

Someone once told me spirits smell of onions but yours is more like
Bowls of coffee
Crisp winter evenings
A German fairground in October

He trails hope in his wake.
The path to his heart as translucent,
as mine is opaque.

I've built a barrier around my space
with walls the colour of a winter sunrise.
and though your mood creeps up against them,
they hold.

Gentleness is blood
swelling from a tongue
bitten over and over
in suppression
of the words that break bones

Your hands reach for me
One secures my waist
The other wraps the back of my neck
Thumb grazing just below the ear
Our eyes don't meet.
But our breath mingles
And the moment burns up
In a burst of shame.

If I take your dismissal
and use it to fan my flames
Do I become wrath incarnate?
Or weaker,
Because I needed you to fuel my fire?