between slow mornings and fast nights,
dropping the masks, sweet ecstasy,
I chose comfort, soft arms, endless quiet sunsets.
it's funny:
you've never been one to pretend,
but still: you held my bleeding hand
to the light.
still, you bared your chest, golden and tender.

this bleeding, thieving hand of mine. 
I take your secrets, clinking like
pink seashells taken from the sea;
I scratch my eyes out not to see
the startling mess I've made of things,
but it's no use. I still see the fish on a string
and your terrible eyes, at times languid, submerged  
but sweeter still in their shock.

and while all those times i was yours,
only now do we play a twisted parody of ourselves.
only now i see the bitterest truth of all:
there's nothing divine about this,
we will never see this through.
there's mean and ugly, and then there's us, taking turns.
in my dreams I offer you something that is not mine to give.
and if blows fell true like kisses,
my golden boy, i'd never have to dream again.