I hate myself for loving him so nakedly…
for so bashfully finding comfort in vulnerability…
muse running flirtatiously through the fields of my mind
and sometimes
I forget that he is human…
that it takes muscle to move mountains of monotony
and slice excavations into his own chest
every time he hits the stage
can you finally see his heart beating?
I was asked, if he didn’t display his soul so vividly
would I even notice him…?
but I’ve had x-ray eye surgery
so consider my vision permanently skewed…
the question is: would you?
would you judge a book by its cover?
masking scars with liquid foundation
because his
was never solid…
applaud his courage to even open his eyes in the morning
because he knows
that even though angels leave invisible lip prints in his slumber
demons with “friend” stitched into their smiles stand patiently by for his demise…
do you notice the glossiness of his eyes?
they are snapshots reflecting fear and racial profiling overcome instinctively
he is the most arrogant humble heart mine ever had the pleasure to beat on one accord with…
acoustic melody in a symphony of silence...
a double shot of espresso raspberry hot cocoa… soothingly elevating to my senses…
with a lionlike mindstate…
and a preacher’s poetic calling…
yet… at night…
he falls to knees like unrepentant harlots…
do you hear him?
sighing saxophone
in a room full of kazoos…
I will send up a prayer for him…
because somewhere
God is far too busy patting Himself on the back
to hear his mute confessions…
But, I hear you, poet…
I hear you…
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