I've been evanescent:
an irrelevant adolescent.
I've felt this for years,
through tardive tears,
rusted shears,
and too much time ducking in the shade.
Sometimes,
I just don't know if it's worth it.
My bed holds me closer than anyone,
and she can't repair the cuts on my fingertips.
(Nor can she silence the creeks or the drips.)
In memory and in reflection,
we hide from present affection.
But I'll invite the bullet,
and accept your kiss.
(For it is all I've wanted
for as long as the recent past recalls.)
For there's an electric hue in your cheeks:
a cunning current vibrating my days into weeks.
You complain of certain self-distortion,
and blow mindless fault out of proportion.
But as the facts would have it,
you are the brightest sun on record.
I am relevant.
I can and will scream loud enough to be heard.
But I will mute beautifully for you.
I will absorb every cell of your existence
with each auspiciously soothing word.