he wasn't
a streetwise cat
.
an alley/gutter lover
.
.
just a boy pretending not to be
wrapped around something more exquisite
we all knew was there
.
.
.
i papered him up in a thousand letters
each one failing a little more
.
(in vain, and vain to think i could succeed)
.
.
but i'll try one more time
if you'll humor me:



you make my fingers itch for a cigarette
because i want to choke
on something beautiful
.
the same way
a dozen tiny sparrows
thrum relentlessly against my ribs
as words slip from your sighs
.
.
.
never been one to know
when the sandpaper comes
.
(these scraped knees bear proof)
.
but you took it to my heart
with gentle thumbs and rough eyes
slowly working back layers
of bruised and tender
self-flesh
.
.
and heaven help me
if i know what to do now
other than
.
let my eyes linger greedily
.
put my hands to the plexiglass
.
.
and watch
(it only reflects my half-worth)
.
.
and wait
(as though i've never drawn breath)
.
.
and hope
(maybe someday)
.
.
.
.
.
you could
forgive my misinterpretations
of your every-other comma
.
and you could
overlook my hesitance
to give up glass words
at your bone-marble altar
.
(they glimmer so hollow in firelight)
.
.
(and they shatter too soon)
.
.
.
i've made nothing of you
that isn't already
.
.
just unveiled
a mirror
long overdue
for sun
.