He walks barefoot on rose petals and
mint leaves
his silent footsteps leave no
footprints
I'm scraping gravel and
begging
to be the ground he walks on.
Patience flourishes between his
lips
and hurls me sprawling awestruck into
love
and tearful adoration
for all the beautiful cracks in his skin
that ****** sunlight and smatter
glittering rays in
prisms across the ceiling
and thread all the raging gaps in my heart.
Of course he is artwork,
blessed by reason and
the mercy of the human experience,
highlighted
by his generosity and the way
his kindness ushers the blood though
my veins.
If not for his beaming soul, I’m sure
my ship would sit shattered selfish
at the bottom of the
livid ocean. And
if, after all his noble graces,
I can offer him nothing else, I
will
at the very least
fix his mirrors.