this year i entered

[plishmoshposh]

You should keep your hands where they are.

Do not let them drift to my hips; do not let the tide turn us to face one another.

Best not to face what is uncertain, so as you take your leave,

make your leave brief. Leave one arm to rest upon my shoulders

and mine around your waist. Eliminate the second glance,

the extra second to steal another squeeze,

another second to question the uncertain,

the uncharted, the unmarred--

because I will--I always will;

there is no consequence caused by character or cost

when consideration is the most commitment I can muster.

So, take your leave and make your haste

lest we read latent chemistry into lingering

touch on lonely nights.

I never wish to see the word mistake scrawled on your skin.

Dark clouds of ink drip from the pen and dot the blue line horizon,

so, let's do away with transgressions tonight and let the breeze carry you home.

He laughs. "Just relax," he says.

Take me home with you tonight!

These dreams are starting to break me and I need confirmation

that this drought will not keep me dry forever.

This plague of love of lust or lust for life

keeps me homebound, but the bed

is left untouched and I would much rather

that I were bound to the bed if my tether will not extend past these walls;

these walls that I have built with trials and tears--

the tears I have abandoned with no more need for them--

unless you deem them fit. In that case, tears

become sweat. Warm, refreshing and airing out

the unused senses.

Here's a secret to keep: if I weep in your arms tonight,

do not think me wistful.

Know that I am relieved

of this pressure

that builds like a pyramid

with the assistance

of ten-thousand men.

"Just relax," he says. He takes a sharp breath; he takes a step back.

The truth may be clouded or clear; I may be some jewel to be unearthed;

but I am not to be trifled with, so your sifting, shifting sands

should lay down in dunes and be silent. Have a nap until

you are compacted glass and I can weigh your grain clearly.

If you do not know your intentions,

if you do not speak of desire,

if you have not noticed the orange in my eyes,

then do not bother to come inside.

Do not entreat to lift bricks like pebbles

from walls fortified by passing caprices;

do not take a peek just to poke through sawdust and cinder

without curiousity to what lies deeper.

I know you--you will depart

without consideration for that you have disrupted

(little boys do not clean up their toys)

and for you, I'm sure it was no Herculean chore

to shake stone from mortar, still drying;

but I am not Atlas,

these bricks are goddamned heavy

and I do not possess the strength to refine

these blueprints again and again.

I have exposed too much of the night-time

to grandfather you into novelty;

I have exhausted my excuses to leave before daybreak;

I no longer exchange that which is sacred

For he who assists in scrawling mistake on my skin.

"Relax," he contracts. "I only meant to say goodnight."

Then speak your peace and save me my graces; let the breeze carry you safely home.

Before you go.

I am one half of a greater whole

and the whole of this existence is based upon this division;

this suffering of separation leads us to seek;

needs to achieve anamnesis;

strives to regain the loss of the greater self;

one half pushes through the mire in search of the half that pulls;

struggling to close the gap between individuality and duality;

if quantum law states that one can become zero and still remain pure, then let us become equals

and I will speak to you as a man:

I want to spin sugar on your skin that will demand

surrender from long phrases scrawled by lost lovers;

I want your hips for my rocking chair and your lips

to linger over every ache they replace with

the forgotten memory that we were once as complete

as we now seek to become.

I cannot

breathe when you are near me

for fear

you will notice

that breath comes in gasps

that this gap

has become palpable

for fear

you will need to perfect your intentions

before speaking of this desire.

I may speak sharply, but I am not perfect

and I have seen enough of the dark

to know the night,

and I know I will not always need sweetly

tendered professions of love.

There will be nights where

the need will be severe, the gap

greater to fill, the struggle

harder to overcome.

You will need to understand that this is not

a mere quest for sexual felicity;

this body runs on electricity.

So, push open the door of impulse,

overwhelm and overtake,

we shudder as we remember and we shake as we forget

understand that darkness does not imply impurity--

we can mix black and white and not have to settle for grey.

If this does not appeal to you, then do not apply.

But be aware that the book that is left unread does not

make answer to whether the cat is live or dead.

The only way to know is to see, but do not peek

if you intend to leave with the breeze.

I am through with this suffering.

I only wish to have it relieved.

He lingers in dark clouds of ink that drip

from the pen; he flickers with the flame;

the sensation of a phantom limb waxes and wanes with the moon

and eases out the window on a wintery breeze.

"Seriously," he says. "Just relax.

I will come to you in time."

He brushes his fingers across my forehead.

"Until then, goodnight."