I'll toll the bells in your return-
you've come back empty handed,
without any stories
to tell me.

I'll lie awake tonight again,
and you'll have nothing to tell me.
No happily-ever-after, no stories of heroes and queens.

I'll wait and want to be tangled in narration,
and dialogue and maybe finally
slumber might find me
and take me in.

And you'll tell me that you're sorry,
that you owe me histories and narratives,
that my eyes won't rest
and it's all you're fault.

But oh my dear,
all I wanted was for you to know
your homecoming
was my most favourite story
yet.

I can tell you that touching you makes me shiver.
It's like sometimes when I try to speak
I choke on the words as if an ocean I keep
in my throat- an abode for the Poseidon in your midst.

Stay with me like cataclysm with a sinner,
lie to me; I'm made of cardboard and tape,
I can take it.

Your soft tsunamis of tongue,
a voice like thunderclaps,
you could make Zeus blush-
a blinding fire shut behind his eyelids,
and an earthquake in every touch.

They tell stories and call you apocalyptic,
but to me you're just the hiss of the snake keeping
guard to what he thinks
he should be protecting.