--I’M NOT SURE ALL THESE PEOPLE UNDERSTAND. 

Patience

Patient,

in boyish wonder,

I spend all night

into morning

circling the slow

wheel of your

nipple,

left one,

above my

blurry eye

now spying

another eye

that sees me as I am,

rotten and unlovable,

yet loving me

as no one else does

or ever can. 

I follow the aureole’s

shallow path,

like a lost child,

into the swollen sea,

as if it’s a

compass

I desperately need

to grasp and trust,

to live on for

one more day

and not be

driftwood again. 

I watch your

puckered skin

contract and redact

its parched history

without me in it,

forming the perfect

target for my mouth,

fingers and tongue,

bidding me assurance,

glistening like

dappled waves,

whispering as the conspired

white doves do,

Come here,

Silly boy. 

Come home,

for once,

where you belong.