"What if my Sunday has passed?
That the week was all I had,
and I messed it up so bad."
And in cognition,
I ungripped my neck.
I saw a counterpart — I was not the only one.
I knew how it was, to dangle by the jagged pier.
And you knew how it was to choke by disregard,
that floating was impossible with a punctured heart.
When each door meant nothing —
used and crossed out in your likeness.
Where I waited for the Sun,
but my windows stay boarded up.
You scraped bottom until my first word fell.
"I am a prisoner. And I am the prison."
"I am a cage, with nothing breathing inside."
I was alone. And you were alone.
And then we were alone together.
You unpicked my fearful lips,
for my throated echoes.
And I reminded you that you
are the reason that beauty exists.
Of the endless books we read,
Auster, Hesse, McCullers, Graves,
we still found ourselves
written on the same page.
Our tattoos were marked like scars —
another hopeless attempt
to speak with ink.
Why not mar the skin,
if we lose only grace?
I used to believe perfection was false,
for I had never seen your face.
You pointed out
my large feminine hands.
Then with your modest fingers,
you screened the chuckles.
And all I pictured from that endearing sight —
my effeminate hands, sheltering yours that frigid night.
No longer living in a future that was all talk.
No longer imperfect — for our scars sat perfect with.
We found Sunday.
I am not alone. And you are not alone.
And we are never alone together.