The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.