Or you are not.
Your polo rests unbuttoned,
And my mother is still ripe to your face;
The likes of which
I do not stand audience for.
I know you have a name
Because it is on the tip on my tongue.
My dry and simple tongue.
Your clean-shaven and foggy face.
Do your palms sweat?
I've imagined them sweating.
The clammy drip reminds me
That this need not be easy
For anyone. Do we
Have the same maker?
If the truth is caked
In shaking necks,
Don't worry. I am not here
To judge on the basis
Of deity.
I have never been that kind
Of star-catapult culprit.
And I can not blame him
For clinging too long
To something so perfect,
Afraid another attempt
Would stand
Blasphemed.
If the sculptor of your clay
Does not approve of mine,
If he is an outcast among the crafters
Of beautiful form,
We will assign ourselves capulet sashes
And make sin a beautiful anomaly.
A force to be reckoned with.
A bitch with connections.
I can not wait to encapsulate you
Fully clothed.
To remind you what you have forgotten:
Your worth.
Beyond the flesh:
That cracked and stumpy artifice
Which can decay.
Your beauty is indelible.
Friend,
Where have you gotten to?
It is time to find the home
We will not question.
I am sure you are preoccupied.
A mission trip,
The tough-as-nails defense
Of your mother,
Your back-breaking research.
But please be gentle,
Remember
I am waiting.
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