heron.

I kicked the past in the chest

when it dared to run by,

breaking and bruising—to remember

him using

old brass keys from the cabinet

to wind

me up and then

Leave.

I cursed his sterile heart,

inked out his jagged eyes,

Damned him

to Hell

to claw at walls of the well

he made me fill alone—

Raven boys:

They crow

but never cry.

But in I draw my limbs now

as I watch you:

Blue heron on the surface

of the sun,

(where the sky meets lake)

Turn to burning dark—awake,

I eclipse you

to see by moonlight

what I’ve done.

I hear hints of constellations

vying for a place,

but the starlight dies—

close those supernova eyes—

you snuff them out,

press the pillow to your face.

He never cried.

I wept in my own orbit

—never touching, but

gravity kept me nonetheless.

Now I watch you

wipe your eyes,

too scared to think about goodbyes—

(I hold you)

Part of me dies

in your duress.

This is what it’s like to love me,

to love you.

There’s fear of change—of loss.

But I’ve got you;

I’m not leaving.

Stargaze together—

a glimmered evening,

This

is what it’s like

to be us.