I always told you keep
your secrets like ink, right up
under layers of my skin where I can see
the black mark they leave.
Impermanence never deterred me from reaching
for your hand like an anchor to measure my weight against
paper-thin realities. Sink with me, lace
my muscles and bones with
the soft heavy haze
let it rest heavily
inside my head. Mark my body where
it's out of sight,
mark these moments each
on the wall, leave them etched in tallies like
we don't care how many we win or lose.
In such a state as we are,
into the white noise of soft
I twist my fingers around my anxieties, make them
diluted and palatable for the journey ahead;
I've been afraid of losing ground or losing you
but it's unclear now as to how
those fears came about in the first place, and their threads are unraveling
as we speak.
I think I tend to glorify
these things more than I should, more than letting them fade
into the background.
The subconscious is a lonely place, no man
should have to go there alone.
Dress this up or
the underpinnings remain
the same, and I've always found comfort
in the way the ache
of all the world's catastrophies rests
in my bones like a shared
I like how the pain grows
my muscles stronger and my skin
thicker. I think stitching
myself into you has added
new layers to these moments and new stories
behind my eyelids and a few new marks
on my wall of "chances I'm glad I took."
I think taking in the pain has given
me the voice so sought-after and I think
I've grown enough of it through my blood now to build
you up how you deserve, and to show you
that casting stones is not always
a plan for failure; sometimes we find miracles
in the middle
of wrong calculations.