when it arrives at dawn i’ll be waiting,
holding out the warm towel for comfort,
adding kindling to the slights and edges,
warming up the kettle for it.
i sit in my virtue and signal peace,
transition crossed arms to open up,
staring out at the human messes and
cognitive dissonance in the shape of pride.
we are meant to be glass filed down,
weathering and eroding by oceans of
doubt, fear, insecurity, and ego.
pains of which i gave up long ago -
i am lucky that i don’t need it to come,
because i love so deeply that it burns me,
saving them the third-degree.
they ask for forgiveness, not permission -
and i don’t ask for anything at all.