Love is in the details, the way
you ask me softly on that quiet,
charcoal couch if I need you
to press the web of flesh between
my finger and my thumb to ease
the pounding in my head:
Pressure for pressure.
It’s the way you say
I’ll be okay before I tell you
that I’m not. The way you know
I need to hear the things I don’t
believe. The way you see me
broken and beautiful —
a duality, not
a mutual exclusion. I don’t
know what to make
of us, but
it feels safe here. So I’ll stay
under nebulous terms,
until I burn your open heart.
I don't know why
I cannot hold affection
without tearing
my closest friends apart.
But you see me through
the mist — the hailstones
of my fear. You anchor me,
a lost vessel, on the outskirts
of the pier. So readily enchanted
by what we stand to gain
that no tempest wild
or sad or strange
can make us part again.