His name brings new meaning to living in the perfect blackness of a
                                     sleepless night, to living in the dusk and the
      squalor of a tired
desert town
        vacated by devils and angels alike.
His body is bathed in pink light,
bathed in bath water,
bathed in marble dust and mildew:
                        you love him.
You love him because you know nothing else,
          know no other way to do or to be
than to be with him,
at his side,
   at his feet,
      wherever, whenever.
He is yours in the way that
nothing is or ever
will be and,
            by god,
do you love him
like the birds love the sky,
            like the gods love tragedy,
like the trees love their roots.

         Without pride or falsities, you bask under
the golden light of the sun at noon, all encompassing and
    burning in the way of your shared home.
There are no new sensations—you've been party to them all—
         but you have no desire for change.
This is it,                            and you are happy.

His name is on your tongue, always, like the rivers of blood that run through your
body, like the warmth of the rocky cliffs,
like
the taste for disaster that swells in your
chest when the air is
too still.
You crave action, movement,
and he is a forest fire at play,
endless and aching.
He burns in a familiar way.

The water of the creek runs red with your cheek,
gunmetal touches your tongue and
for a moment you are in
          another life: you are underground, caked in calcium and
butyl, letting wave after wave of shock make its way over you.
It’s over now and you have him, he’s yours. He’s yours.
You carry his name on your heel, in the center of your shadow,
at the bottom of the well in your heart’s heart.
You know nothing other than him.
You don’t want to.