There were nights
when you would left me
for sleep
and I would ask you to wait for me
in an old shed
near the train rails
in your dreams.

I wonder if I ever made it.
I wonder if you ever waited.

Do tell me
I'm eager to hear your heartbeat.

You are far more complicated
and immense
and incalculable
and larger than that.

You are a montage of stardust
of good days and bad days
of exploding galaxies
and rebirth of universes.

My social life is
basically filled with
cats.

A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.

A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.

A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.

A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.

I will answer you truthfully.

In nights like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll tuck you in and
read you stories
I'll tell you about the hills in Scotland that
devoured people on rainy days
and the grey rabbit that
deceived it and snapped its heart.

I'll tell you about the battlefield in
places we cannot touch
the origin of rumbling thunders and
forked lightning.
I'll tell you about the sacrifices to the old gods
as their decaying bodies sway in the wind
and crows and ravens circle the canopy of the old oak trees.

In times like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll make coffee and
get us a couple of apple pie with cinnamon
Then I'll tuck you in and say I love you in unusual,
remarkable ways.

By telling you peculiar stories until you fall asleep, perhaps.

And if you want to –
if it comforts you –
I'll do this night after night.

I'll bring you marvels from arcane knowledge and
forgotten myths and
I guarantee that the unwavering cruelties of this inane, mad civilization
will only make us stronger.

Let' walk, after all these
Explore the wood lands
Search for the faery rings
Lit fire out of dried pine woods
Lay on dead leaves and
watch the passing of the stars
Whisper in low, husky voice
Talk in ancient languages of the universe
Recite our long, forgotten poetry.

Disappear with me, after all these
I'll bring cloves and
rosemary and
crown your hair with purple thistle.

Do you recall that time?

You were resting your head on the creased pillow
while my palm traced the patterns of your moles.
I'd run the tip of my fingers,
almost without weight,
on your bare skin, and
draw the constellations of unremembered stars.

Cassiopeia, I'd say.
Or Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant.
Antlia. Cepheus. Pictor. Pavo. Musca.
Orion the Hunter.

Do you remember those times?
I guess not.

Because you've always been the blind and
I've always been the poet.
These wonders escaped your notice --
you dull, specious creature with
your dull, specious brain.

Those moments were spectacular.