Some men yearn to clasp
the edges of stars by their
fingertips
to at least hold onto the debris,
that creates golden iotas
in midnight oceans;
and whispers of olden tales,
singing of a microscopic sphere,
that twinkles within the vastness
of emptiness.
But I yearn to hold wind in a jar,
capture the oxygen
and never let go of its essence.
Carry it with me.
Take it to a place only she and I
know of,
and cradle the edge of her hand,
into the wrinkles and crevices
if my solemn grip.
I'm not big, not very strong,
and I don't have the power
that could protect you,
from all the injustices
that could befall you.
But what I do have,
are my hands to hold yours,
to feel the warmth of my palm,
meld into your grasp.
A body to shield you from the
debris of falling dust,
cascading words,
and descending storm.
And words,
that can cushion gusts,
and quell hurricanes of the mind.
I can't heal your wounds, but I
can try,
alleviate the pain of scars with
smooth air,
dry your cheeks of your years,
and try me best to create a cool
breeze.
But if I couldn't do any of that,
I'd take the glass vessel
carrying swirling wind from the
heavens,
I'd look you in the eyes and say,
"I want you to have it."
My hand tight around the jar
before giving you my oxygen.
