Willing

I could sit down and try to announce in perfect terms why I do not feel perfect. Why in fact does breathing feel like the most pathetic labor of the world, a push away from expelling myself into the gray area that lies between comatose and walking down the street to your house. I could write a thousand poems explicating in the most profound verse the marrow of my dream, the one where you come towards me in bare feet and broken brain saying "the reason I survive is trust".

Love, the wolves are coming and they are snapping at my ankles in the throws of early morning- when the drench of sleep slides off between my toes and I am back to hating the day. They are coming for us, they are coming. My coordination is poor and you are so focused on the steps directly in front of your toes that you're missing the ravine a mile ahead. But isn't that what time is for? Timing in reaching back behind your brain and finding that I am standing there, half naked, with dark eyes and a smile.

I could scream it through the glass between us until it shatters and we're covered in scratches. They'll be as shallow as the one underneath your left eye but they will burn brighter than our eyes, and they'll sting. Ether drips from capillary to capillary and you seem to forget that we're bonded by more than blood.

The rocket is waiting to burst from your lips and soldiers are coming. They're coming. I could try to write a poem to tell them to stop, but you can't tell the world to stop spinning, you can't tell God to stop being a bastard.