I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding equating happiness to a person.
How now am I to deny the victory my loneliness revels in at the baratone in his voice?
The secret smiles that are ever too known by his stare because he looks at me like I am an answer.
In brevity he is grace, sculptor of dreams, in brevity he is a little bit of everything.
How do I reconcile that I’ve sown into my skin, an inch for every encounter, and now I am more him that I’ve ever been me.