I want you to come and talk through the night
so that dawn surprises us when it comes,
and we rouse ourselves to making coffee
in a shadowless kitchen, delirious,
with no sleep, so that the dish mat shimmies
like seaweed caught in the surf. Nothing's real,
except us, and it's only because we
have spoken in our childhood voices
and recognize the same caste in our vowels
that we've come, timidly, from the shadows.
Oh, how I have yearned for you to come here!
Yet, I'm hesitant, still, to bare myself.
What if you mistake me for illusion.
as I have so often reasoned you to be?

02/26/2012

Posted on 02/26/2012
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