Homes

i.
There are things
I don't tell anyone—

that you are too sensible
to marry me next weekend,

that I want to run
headfirst into it
because I know forever

like ink on my fingers

but my buoyancy in marriage
is uncharted
& terrifying.

I do not know how
to be the world

or yours—

you've trapped me
behind your eyelids

& I want to know you
in the wild-eyed dark
like a nightlight,

like the curve of
a ship's bow that
holds me above my
self-imposed ruin.

I want to charm you—

hang rubies & gold
from your body
& put you into
a locket of faith—

knowing that a
simple band of metal
promises me always

& acts as a Keep Out sign
to every other woman
who will see the
goodness
deep-set into your bones.

ii.
There are things
I don't tell anyone—

that I am still in love
with you

& it purples under
my breastbone
until someone asks

if I need a doctor.

I want to know you
like the tracing paper
of my own skin—

matching parts lining
the windowsills
like mathematic equations
no one will ever solve.

I want to feel the push
of your breath
on the back of my neck
in your ancient bed
as you dream me

into existence.

In the story
I was the savior—

prophet of life
& its delicate nature.

But you are the one
who kept me here—

a live wire

or respirator
humming a song
in the dark next to me.

Shocking me back
into this lifetime

& promising the never-ending
passion of forever
on the edge of the sun.