The way I love is not for every man.
I love the long night’s conversation,
its slow dissolve, the dark turning
to all things under the sun,
the sun itself a cold coin
tossed in the black well of space.
I’ll unfold all your stories
to meet you in the dark
the scar on your left arm,
the first lie you told,
the taste of your tongue
when you wake,
every last seed of what you know,
what you’ve seen under the sun’s hard eye,
the moon’s indifferent gaze.
I’ll take it in,
this harvest of your mind,
even the rot, the silences.
I’ll catalog every flaw,
judged in the dark,
but kept.
I’ll eye your eyes.
When they watch me, I read the squints,
the hunger, clawing curiosity,
the more. Layers.
Like a geologist armed
with questions,
I chip at the strata of your gaze.
I long to forget my duties in your arms,
my debts to life and beings,
the long, persistent list of the world’s
demands. I want to absolve you
of expectations, a clean slate,
a sky wiped clear of clouds,
but only as long as you meet them all.
Every single one.
I love you by smothering you into me,
a slow suffocation, a deep dive
into the lung, the blood, the bone.
Being me. Mine. Of me. My own.
Then I release you
to your own devices, as long as our days
fill with work.
I’ll feed you but you won’t know what,
some days it’s love, some days disappointment.
I sing while I cook, and my voice already knows
whether this will be your last meal.
Then I plant ferns in you,
their delicate, unfurling fronds,
and water you daily
a steady drip, a dark stain
on the earth, so you can thrive.
So you can thrive.
So you can thrive.
A wild thing
chained to my garden plot.
How does one apply for this position?
I love everything about this kind of love.