My tears feel heavy sometimes
when they hang on tired lashes
that want nothing but to protect eyes
that wonder farther than they should.
His time is timeless
but mine is paced
calculated by the minute
and all spontaneous combustions
amount to words discarded in their immediate fashion
a fashion that lacks structure and logic
but holds more than what is said.
He lays his head lightly on my wide shoulders
trying to put down the weight of the world there
but placing the dust of a crumbling world
on an already crumbling one
merely replaces one tuft of dust with another.
Yet he lays his head there
and I think to myself
about the last time I saw someone crumble to ash
in front of me
and rise again naked enough to almost be whole
and his nakedness helps mine
crawl out of a hibernating state.
Time is only timeless
when you start counting years
you wasted trying to figure out who you weren’t
instead of accepting who you truly are.
I am self-defined and self-evident
in all that I choose not to do
and when I do something
it stems out of affection
dissociated from the nakedness of flesh
that doesn’t involve a woman’s touch
and what I lack in verbal fashion
I make-up for with eyes that see beyond the flesh.
I see everything so vividly
that nameless colors emerge
circling around question marks
you fold yourself into
so comfortably that I feel inadequate at times
in speaking with semi-colons
instead of cut-off full-stops.
All of this doesn’t foreshadow
the truth of the matter:
It is a struggle to be who you are
when all around you
people are trying to figure you out.