breathing as a drum

he exists among angels for me a messiah black among the translucent wisps an undiscovered thick and angry genius with so many folds to his insides that they couldn’t possibly comprehend how much exists inside but I can see it sometimes I feel like there is some cryptic answer to all the worlds ills in the space from his outer lid to inner like the entirety of what is good hides there and I this bleeding soul dancer with no true fortitude of my own am the only one to really recognize his breathing as a drum I would trade night for the creases of his fingers their muddled brilliance their lined rawness long and articulate the night would be so lucky the sun would be so unmatched to his pupils too dark and ocean like (at night) moving like undulating bellies making love blind the sun would be so inappropriate although he looks right in it I like to whisper to him when he is sleeping and watch his face swollen with sleep grow calm and soft bowl like never wake easily next to him fall fast he laughs with teeth at my comatose and I mean to tell him that I only sleep so long and hard because the day is never as satisfying for practicalities don’t replace his heavy thigh or rib in my chest very well and the lunch hour is boring and the rain even sometimes boring without his liquid stained face in it there have been rains when all I wanted truly all was to be loved by him and in the dark I could trace his outline away from the branches and leaves and all I wanted was to trace it with a charcoal thick off line artist kind of ownership for having drawn his silhouette into my collection I would call it one of my personal pieces and say it wasn’t for sale all for a walk in the rain with the shadow man of every emptiness I actually owned he makes noises in my life that are so subtle I sometimes wonder if real when he watches me naked or not and reflects a kind of serendipitous joy like every time he touches my breast we meet again for the first time and find out we are lovers trapped in this time stop or go never ending kind of messy sheet life where another sigh is another sigh somehow devastatingly worthwhile and everything else is distraction from things that when we die we will say thank god I did a lot of that he is the most deep delicate jazz chord I have ever heard something only played by a musician when they are so tragic or in love or mad or hungry or dying that they must be true to their fingers on the instrument and nothing else and he is that chord but he can’t play himself too fragile might break always might break silence would kill me a filling up occurs like rest in me in him but something more red like a fire outside that warms your lungs on an otherwise cold night freezing world and my hope is in his mouth