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.