invisible hands are guiding me – soft, mammalian – wrapped under and around just as I expect them to – your son in our morning bed, teaching me how to tickle – the unsurprising surprise and delight – everything in this extended moment is so lovely, isn’t it, on the outside looking in – but tragic if I’m looking back at it from the window of an airplane – hush, be – here, where I woke up in a dark corner of a city that has worn you well, making this bed mine, claiming space, trying on strange shades – I’m carving in stone in the glint of the sun – have I stopped to admire anything of late? – I’m too dreary and slow to get out of the way – realize that I cannot trust any impulse to move or stay when there’s this gnawing emptiness inside that won’t let me be – empty – an unwieldy nothing that I struggle to hide – afraid to open my mouth these days in case the nothing pours out and swallows the room – how soon is my shattering? – is it already happening? – the rain’s falling in non-committed spurts for our sins, I’m tired already, though I must rinse and repeat yesterday – my hands are where I wear my heart – the men, they fell through my door, brittle shells ready to crack, falling, they cried and bathed in the love that has scared you – or maybe was just too holy to name – our Yahweh – I have so wanted this love to be yours only, and for yours to be mine – but belonging in the house of love means loosening the stranglehold – to let nothing belong to you – to kiss the joy as it flies – all is everyone’s and no one’s – everything and nothing – and it hurts me some days, like today, with the city din pressing the walls of this borrowed castle, sitting on an old rug, trying to get excited fingering the spines of a hundred books, each holding its own Narnia, when truth be told the only penned words I want to read are yours.