.

Maybe today
that cute guy
from downstairs in #6
the quiet one
who winks
will helpcarry
my heavy grocery bags
up the stairs
put them on the counter
ask me of I need help
with any other chores.

I've never heard
a voice like his
the lilt and timbre
or the graceful strength
of his lion hips
as he heads toward the door
and just when I think
he will vanish
down the stairs
he stops to turn
his gaze on me
as time stands still
and I step toward him
breathlessly hoping
he will speak
my name.

A deep trumpet sounds
from some distant place
as he reaches
for my hand
and his lithe body
begins to vibrate and glow
a pulsating male miracle
of rainbow light
with diamonds
dancing among
fingers of white fire
wrapping him
in celestial heat
that does not burn
and from his strong shoulders
rise great silver wings
angelic and potent
beating in synchronous time
to the rhythm
of my heart
and I know
what this means.
I know who
he is.

The next day
I look for him
but the landlord says
he moved out this morning
and left this note for you.

"I never caught your name,
but I like the way sunlight
dances in your eyes.
I am not far.
Come.
Find me."

After the argument
all he could do
was slump down
in the old chair
near the window
that looks out
onto the wide garden
beside the lake.

He yelled louder
as usual
dominated and gesticulated
but has paid
the same dear price
as she trembles
hidden behind
the soft pillows
she hoped
would cradle
words of love.

Every time she asks
please love me
a little slower
this time
he hears criticism
flying into a rage
panicking to realize
he does not know how
to do anything
but clutch at her
with the harsh hands
of a frightened man
who cannot hear
cannot see
and cannot believe
she loves him
at all.

I once said I was on cloud nine, but who's counting, anyways? I would, but, you see, I have too many things to tell you at once, more than I can count one one or two or six thousand hands - even still, the sun in your hair is doing a pretty good job of saying the words that they haven't made up for you yet. In my mind, the world would be happier it they'd stop looking for heaven in the sky because the universe that exists where my fingertips stop and your skin starts is not clothed in all white and there are no pearly gates but in this small fraction of a moment, nobody is dying. In some way, something taught us to tilt our heads back and stare at the starry expanse of the celestial universe above us as though we were looking for the answers to every thing we've ever been to afraid to ask but, in my peripheral vision, something about you glittered and my neck was tired from staring and calling out to whatever existed beyond our world and getting a divine busy tone, it was nice to see something beautiful in these human realms, for once. So if there is room to buid even the smallest shelter in the spaces between the small spaces in your teeth, I promise to construct one out of gentle words; if there was a scripture to make the veins under your skin sing praises a little louder, then I would write and rewrite the Bible until my hands bled. Just let me be the reason you are hungry but do not starve, let me show you the way that a body can unfold without crumpling first; I will trace a pattern onto your skin without so much as a single sound, but still, it could, perhaps, be something close to music.