Patience
Patience is a puddle in your eyes.
Each day you look upon me within foreign realms of happiness;
insomuch you adeptly caress satin wings sprouting from my back
allowing lips of yours to feed the desire which separates our souls,
poorly decorated in circumstance.
Never have I imagined losing a man within my line of sight
so intently that I spy nothing but his reflection in the light
while his image take hostage of my own and in common reflection,
whether it be in the eye of another or a passing mirror,
his face is the one I see.
Enraged by passion untouched, unmoved and leashed,
preconceived imprisonment of a foul kind—absolute freedom by day, thoughts born and abused
as night loiters beyond the soiled horizon, shooting the moon high in the sky
I am caught in an awkward, velvet captive.
Crouched in such a way, reminiscent of fetal days,
neglecting the space provided to stand and move;
it is my choice to decrease comfort and starve-alive with you.
I bathe in your eyes and soak in the warmth of your spirit;
it is your patience which drives me,
how willing you are to restrain from an ill-fated fantasy
that would sacrifice a lifetime of mutual serenity which is found
in the sea of everything we share.
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