Although my heart is moth-eaten, I wear it on my sleeve regardless. I took a polaroid of you clinging to me and laid hold of the moment where you fashioned yourself a home in between the intervals of my despondency. I can't recall befriending the blues. I can only recall you.
You that plants tulip seeds in my pores, you that grants my gardens four hands, four palms, two souls, two hearts hectares with fruitful lands, together with an outpouring river to prosper.
By the river is a willow, under the willow is a bench where we sit and I let myself exist as a cryptic poet with a pen and you; the one with a handful of ink, elucidating all my cloyed contradictions. You're a silver-tongued huckster on moonlit nights. Scent of your cologne on the sheets and weight of your soul I never wish to lose. Unfettered longing, my expressive yes, your impish smile —
my oranges and cherries fit perfectly in your stained palms and their flavour matches the one bathing on your tongue. You smile again and there's laughter.
This irrepressible tranquility that blooms in me each and every day I wake up beside you is a bestowal from God. There is a lingering safety hugging me as you offer me a place between your ribs. A home built on "I'm proud of you". The smoke that comes out of the chimney spirals away to compose a Testament of our story and I try to compose myself, for instead of the once vehement storm, I see a constellation formed as a cherished face. Affirmation hand-outs supported by the benevolent welfare are the only bread you need to bring to the table. Your acceptance of my torn sweaters, your glad-handing kisses, your grounds sodden with Gospels, the Moon and my childhood prayer to find a token of tenderness, a keepsake of solitude, a relic of this everlasting love carrying your name, that is sculpted in my birth time, that will be sculpted in my sepulcher.
