The Wrong Side of Right

[134]

He whispered in my ear last night before we both

drifted off that I needed to promise not to leave him.

I don't think I've ever packed that much passion

into a string of words leaving my mouth, passing

by my lips and into his ear like a virus; an infection

that can only do good, that can only plant seeds

in the middle of his chest where other people have

only jerked out roots. He is windows open wide on

a May morning. He is glass, he is a kaleidoscope

that, when looked through, you can only see the

good in this world. You can see him, and he is

the good. He feels he's a burden, space wasted,

filling the openness of his shoes and feeling like

he's filling the Grand Canyon with worry.

I want to be the house he runs to when he wants

to feel at home. I want him to rest his legs inside

of my veins, take a break from the world and listen

to the rush of my blood; it is throbbing through my

system with such force because I anticipate his

touch even when he's nowhere near.

He is not an unfortunate soul. He is just beginning.

And I want to begin with him.