I tell you that I just want
to be wanted.
Needed the way a lock
needs the safe feel of
it's key's cool skin,
the gentle memory of it's
perfect cuts and curves.
If only we could open up
our lovers the way
we open our front door.

Maybe it was how you wore pain.
The way your tears, lazy little rivers on
your perfect face, would wash down in
chaotic lines. Prisoners of emotion
trying desperately to escape being absorbed
back into the flesh prison of your skin.
Skin that used to soothe my fears as
my fingertips put on a ballet across its surface.
Smelling of cool autumn promises, blue sky "I love you"s,
and thoroughly damp memories. Slightly marred
with emotional pock marks and raised
scar tissue that mapped out your life
in a secret language known only to you and the blade.

I'm pretty sure
you'll forever feel like home to me.
As broken as that home may be.