The Mycenaean people carried Tiriseroe as a god
his valor with the capacity of any three men
and he rose into the divine realms,
but still his body fell with age
when time pressed into his existence
and he received the fate that is bestowed upon us.

I carried you over the the threshold of my temple
my hands with the power to shape water and sand into flesh
and you floated above them weightless,
but still my lips trembled with desire
when they pressed into your skin
and you received the blessings that you bestowed upon me.

In the same way that you receive my words through text,
my words with weight much heavier than you
and they sink below you like anchors,
but still my ears rang with distress
when the spoken words pressed into my brain
and I received the contempt that was bestowed upon me.

If Tiriseroe, with all of his valor,
could not overcome the fate that he faced,
then I would be foolish to believe
that my hands and words and the blessings they bestow
can overcome the fate that awaits us.

How was I supposed to try to save you?
As our souls were seemingly hanging
from the same silver cord
and we found freedom in letting our feet dangle.
Mundane marionettes clumsily controlled by their astral bodies
orbiting too closely and with excess vigor
their silver strands became tangled too tightly
to distinguish one from the next.
My eyes were too focused in their gaze to have noticed
until you, ever so gently, nudged my head
and asked that I explain the knots that bound us.
In that moment I desired to love you
whatever smaller amount
that would let me tell you anything but the truth.
No love miser could have resisted
a request whispered out of such necessity
that it tore the breath from the room.
With shaking hands I traced the path
from the bottom of a dangling soul
to the apex of the celestial cross bar
and noted every intersection our silver cords made.
What is it that you thought would happen?
It was not until I reached the top
and every notation was written in fresh red
that I saw you already possessed the graphed coordinates.
How many revisions can be requested
of a map that consumes you when you make it
for a scene that never changes?
Please nod yes when I ask
if you momentarily forgot when making the request
that you and I only write in blood.

I told you that I had no choice but to love you
and you smiled and nodded as if you were giving in to the thought,
but your eyes brightened and your mouth contorted
into the smirk that you give me when you're quite certain
either someone offered me thirty silver to say it
or I'm full of ****.

I lacked a taste for coffee when I was young.
Patience was a commodity in short supply,
and the few times I had tried to drink it
I found nothing but pain and bitterness in the beverage.
Yet, every time you came you brought it with you
and you brewed it with so much care
that I did not have the heart to tell you
how difficult it was for me to drink it.
Did I never tell you how you always forgot
to turn off the machine when you left?
I would follow behind you and switch it off ,
after you departed,
because you were too busy to stay
and drink what you had so effortlessly made.
I think my hands were too rough for the machine you used,
and when I broke the machine,
it continued to trickle slowly.
I knew how much it meant to you
so I did everything that I could to keep it off the floor.
Teacups and coffee mugs and plastic cups were the first to be filled
followed by punch bowls and baking dishes and iron pots.
It still dripped slowly and I started to panic
when the bathtub and the washing machine both started to overflow.

In those years I had become a sprinter
yelling at the masses to keep up during a charity marathon.
How many women delighted
in the seemingly endless supply of coffee that I brought to them?
It was often lukewarm at best,
and tasted nothing like when you had first brewed it,
but few will complain about the taste of a free drink when they thirst.
While they delighted in coffee I drank San Pellegrino in a glass
and the most sanguine sangria when I thought no one was watching.
Who was I to think them less evolved for not knowing the difference?
It is hard to keep sight of a finish line so far away
when the thought never leaves your mind
that if you ever stop sprinting and  you fall behind
you might return home to find it submerged.

I did not stop running until I could no longer breathe.
When I woke up I was sitting in the same house
that you used to brew coffee in while we visited.
I did not know what else to do,
and so I started pouring the coffee out.
I could not slow down once I had started.
Gallon after gallon poured out
and it rushed down the drain so willingly
that I wondered what stake gravity had in the matter.
I took the time to learn how the machine had been broken,
and with effort I repaired it so that it no longer trickled.

You still brew coffee every time that you come to visit,
but you brew it with so much care
that I have learned the patience to drink it slowly.
What choice did I ever have but to learn to drink it?
Did I never tell you how you always forget
to turn the machine off when you leave?

I started to love her in open view.
In the mornings we would walk together
and she would reach out
and try to pull me in with her gentle beckoning.
At first, I think, we sank into the background,
but each day that they saw us together solidified the emotions
that the inquisitive observers realized through our shared whispers
and the smiles caused by the revelation of what those whispers meant.
They began to wave each day
as I floated by with her lips gently pressing against me.
I could not help but wave back to respond
that all they had assumed was true.

I appeared to love her too suddenly for open view.
They saw her gentle beckoning pull me into her in the afternoon
of the same morning they realized our whispers.
Objections were called out and followed with reasoned fear.

She is still too cold to hold you.

You cannot tell me that you are fine when your lips are trembling.

It would be wise to wait for a better season.

What do you think you are proving by doing this?

I had started to love her in open view,
but what the observers failed to realize
was that I was trembling before my body ever touched the water.
While they slept at night I longed for her,
and rose out of the comfortable warmth of safety.
In nights of frigid cold I ran to her
and poured myself into the only container
large enough to hold the emotion that it caused.

I appeared to love her too suddenly for open view.
I could not wade in slowly enough
to let the water get acclimated to me.
I longed to be surrounded by the one
that pulled me in with her gentle beckoning.

I gasped, wide-eyed, as I broke the surface,
with the lively smile of a man
determined to swim in the waters he loves
regardless of the season.

When I look at you...

I see an inspiration to be a better person. I see a reason to make the world a better place. I see someone that it makes me proud to call my equal. I see the person that I cannot think of without my soul hungering to be near to them. I see hands that can calm my soul with a single caress. I see eyes that throw my soul into chaos with a single glance. I see the one that I cannot fathom living life without. I see kindness whose rarity cannot be comprehended. I see wisdom and insight that can only exist in an empathetic heart. I see a patience for which I will always be thankful. I see the greatest reason that I have ever found to close my eyes and thank the universe. I see a smile that causes me to forget hesitation. I see arms that provide more warmth than a million stars. I see a hope that refuses to be broken even when the heart that holds it is. I see a love that grows like ivy and overtakes all in its path.

I see a questioning of intentions. I see a fear of being loved for the wrong reasons. I see a doubt of self caused by men that could not accept you for everything that you are, and everything that you are not. I see insecurities caused by loneliness. I see desires longing to be fulfilled. I see a mind that longs for companionship on a deeper level. I see a broken heart that craves to be made whole. I see daily progress in looking past the shadows to see the trees that created them. I see a natural depth that most could not even attempt to pretend. I see a reason to answer the same question a thousand times until my meaning causes clarity.

I see a person whose existence causes my emotion to overpower the logic I cling to. I see the one that I would fight a thousand armies to keep safe. I see the one I have spent countless sleepless nights thinking about. I see the muse that inspires my heart to create. I see the person for whom a replacement does not exist. I see the cause of a desire that overcomes any willpower I possess. I see the sun by which my world rises and sets. I see the only definition of beauty that ever made sense. I see the only person that has ever been able to render me speechless. I see the catalyst for a love that cannot be contained. I see a girl that I was enamored with that has turned into a woman I am inspired by.

I see the only person that I want to hold close. I see the cause of trembling because of emotions longing to be freed. I see the person that has taught me countless lessons. I see the person I would rather spend a day with than an eternity without. I see the person I cannot help but touch to remind myself that they are real. I see the ghostwriter that has influenced every word I have written by guiding my hand through my heart. I see the one that sustained a love so great that it could not be transferred to another. I see the only person I want a future with. I see the person that I want to grow with.

When I look at you I see the answer to every question I have ever asked that mattered.

The smoke that billowed outwards following wind current
was visible even from the horizon,
and served as a beacon for a curious mind.
So the troubadour wandered to find what did warrant
a terrible curse that could brighten
the sky with fires furious enough to blind.

He heard a proclamation from the city's king
as it burned down before his eyes
that it was not worth his time to save.
A gift of buckets the man did bring
in hopes that he could make the flames subside
as its owner abandoned it and walked away.

The supports of each tired building that collapsed
reached out its fiery tendrils to the next
until all that was left of this city was Ash.
The time to save the molten city had lapsed
and though the troubadour was vexed
he continued with buckets of water unabashed.

The foundation survived the hateful flames
and the inhabitants of the city flooded the streets
to salvage the jewels that had been hidden inside.
A lyricist knows nothing of building frames
or the noise of impact as the hammer beats
so as not not impeded progress he stood aside.

He watched as the builders replaced
the crowded wooden buildings that had fallen to fire
with heavy and beautiful marble walls.
After each travel into the world he quickly raced
back to this city to inquire
if the buildings within had been reinstalled.

He pleaded with the builders to not neglect
the necessity of the simple buildings that were
a house for those without houses for so long.
Again and again the builders did reject
until he begged enough that they would concur
as long as he continued to bribe them with song.

He wandered the world and wrote every word
that the concert of the world whispered to him
and he learned to play every riff.
To make sure he inspired the builders that heard
the truth of this city's love hymn
and he played it to them every day as a gift.

If he inspired  the builders he could not know
but they built a city worthy of the praise
that claimed her the most beautiful city of all.
When they finished they brought him in to show
the new buildings that they did raise
of gold and gems that would never fall.

Each night was spent singing in her ear
as he traveled through the darker places
that the builders forgot to place lights.
He did not have the wisdom to hear
her whispers or feel her missed embraces
as he reveled in her delights.

A lyricist knows nothing of structural support
so how could he know he was to blame
that the city was collapsing under the weight of its beauty.
Further the city suffered because of his tort
as plunderers with their war wagons came
to claim this city as their *****.

They burned what was left to the ground
as they left with what they desired
and forgot about the the wreckage that remained.
The troubadour sat without a sound
for an elegy his voice was too tired
and his tears could no longer be contained.

The city he loved was Ash as he had found it
and he did not know what could be done
to show the world the beauty it held.
Travelers and merchants that passed were astounded
as he stood by it in the rain or the sun
because none could see the beauty that he beheld.

His clothes became damp and torn
and his singing voice a shrill
as he continued his labor of love.
He began to believe his welcome was worn
and his sadness began to make him ill
as he watched from the mountain above.

A troubadour knows how to sing
of the beautiful things in the world
yet knows not how to sustain them.
But if he finds his words can bring
hope to a city or a smile to a girl
he will collapse from producing constant hymn.

Each lover placed a single part of me into the conglomeration
that became the person you know,
once the blood between each of the pieces cooled
and sat still for a duration lengthy enough for it to congeal.

The first placed a heart on the mass
and showed me just how swiftly it could beat.
The second ****** on eyes that had been concealed
and granted me the ability to observe the beauty that others hide within.
Another attached arms to the naked torso
so that I could hold others close and feel their warmth.
The next applied lips to my face
and taught me how to use them to make skin shiver and tremble.
As they stood in line and waited patiently
each one added another portion to the being that you know.

Each gifted me with a portion of myself that did not exist previously,
but now,
with their lips dripping venom
they ask me in whispered tongues,
with the sheets that conceal their motives waving carelessly in the wind,
what gift it is that you can grant me that I do not possess.
What knowledge that one so full of youth could possibly bestow
and I cry out with a frustration
that I will never take opportunity to explain to them.

For all of the gifts that they were able to bestow upon me
none were able to calm the trembling of my cowardly soul as you can.

You and I,
when we were yet in darkness,
we stumbled to find our own paths until we collided together.
In this collision we found that we were able to grant a light
each to the other.
And in finding this we decided to provide that light
for as long as it could be sustained.

You, love, were not a guiding star
you were the sun around which all things revolved
and your gravity pulled me back to the path that I was meant to follow.

As I followed mesmerized behind you
in one of those dazed steps
my light began to falter
and I forgot to lead you from the darkness you continued in.

So I took every emotion that you granted
and used them as a source of fuel
so that I could create a conflagration
large enough that the darkness could not compete.
This burning that you inspired became your guiding star,
brilliant and always visible when you are in darkness,
but too far away to offer the warmth and light to keep you out of it.

There is so much that you have already taught me,
but I need your help to continue what I have already started to learn.

You have taught me that with a loving touch
my trembling soul can be put at rest,
and then it is possible to be comfortable within my own skin.
You have taught me how to love someone so completely
that their world changes
from shades of black to sepia tones
and then explodes in color so vivid
that they can scarcely walk outside without collapsing
from the beauty that you have granted to life.
You have taught me how to patiently listen
to the chaos of another's life,
and make no move,
but to only hold out my hand in case they should reach for it.
You have taught me that sorcery exists for converting restless sleep to rejuvenating dreams.
More than anything,
you have taught me that it is possible
for a person to have a love for another that is greater than their love for self.
Not through your words,
or through your ideas,
but through your actions as you drew me from the dark.

So if the venom drips close enough to your ears that you should hear it fall,
observe the way color leaps at me from my every surrounding
and know that you have taught me everything that they could not.