2:30 in the morning dark
You did not see me
Coiling silver spindles
Of this poem
Into a web
Because it was dark.
2:30 in the morning
dark.
You spoke to me
In the only language
You know how to.
Like our own love
Language that is
Immediately translated
In the left side of
My frontal lobe.
“I love you, stupid”
“I love you, too”
Like a sleepy mouth
After the first kiss
From black coffee.
Could you tell that
I’ve been dying to say
It, back? Or at all?
“You’re dumb”
“So?”
I didn’t want to
Admit it.
Admit that you have
A hold of absolution
Over me.
“I wouldn’t change it”
You woke up the day before.
The first thing to grace your lips,
My shoulder.
I think about five years earlier.
And three days.
How I dreamed of my life.
It was rosy and peaceful
Like soft cups of tea
And gray fuzzy sweatpants.
I longed to play my life through
Those painful and triumphant
Five years
And three days.
How sure I was that it
Would be magical.
And magical indeed.
But for reasons so
Far beseeched
Under me.
This is what love
Feels like, I thought.
The idea that I finally thought.
Like gears finding their way
And at once clicking
Into place.
Spinning these
Silver coils
In front of you
In the dark,
2:30 in the morning dark.
Five years and three days.
I felt alive despite the
Times I felt hollow.
In a bed with someone else.
Someone
Else.
There existed a time
Where I begged not
To be anywhere
Without you.
Motivated by fear
And preconceived notions
That were painted thick
With acrylics infused
With longing so strong
It terrified me.
But I lay there with you.
Spinning silver strands
Before your eyes
In the dark.
2:30 in the morning dark.
You think that I was
Rubbing your back
Because you asked me to.
But that is not the truth.
Your skin like a token
awarding my survival.
I wanted to touch every inch.
Embroidered lace with
Intrinsic mandalas,
Each unique like a fingerprint.
Have I only made it through,
Or have I made it out?
It was worth it,
To spin you this silver,
Concentric web
Right in front of your closed eyes
In the dark.
2:30 in the morning dark.
