all these places we leave;
all the lovely boys with kind hearts, but cruel intentions;
all the bright places between humid nights;
all of the sweet honey with warm bread; and
all of the comfort after tragedy.
in the midst of it all is the image of
slow beating hearts, fast beating hearts—
euphoria and adrenaline;
lush greens, effervescent blues—
all extending beyond the line of your arm.
herein lies the promise of your lover:
i would give you prague, budapest, amsterdam;
i would give you stars, wine, dreams.
you don’t understand this, not yet;
this much i already know:
you have to depart soon, as i have.
the silver platter comes too late, and
i know i could not always do for you
what you have restlessly offered me.
while you are still shining, and
your eyes remain overcome with passion—
that for all your sharp blunder,
you are soft in your patience,
and pliant in your heroism—
may you know i would do it all, again:
everything in my power to bottle this up—
the childlike wonder, the ferocious heart.
i would weave you tales of knights and jesters;
i would gather you in gentle embraces under calloused palms;
i would pour you endless bottles of amber liquid.
i have known no kinder heart,
with the capacity to be terrible; and
i have known no greater joy,
than to bear witness of malevolence drowned in light.
there is no telling what lies forth,
there is no telling if our paths
converge down the line.
thank you for the honey, the warmth, and the songs; and
when the time comes for you rest under your own fig tree,
may you never forget:
you will always fit perfectly
in the spaces between my fingers.
written on 190527 / 190621