When I tell him I love him

He does this thing, 

the man I want to live for. 

The extraordinary man I want to share 

all my lives with. 
When I tell him I love him. 

When I trust my heart enough to

scream it. 

He walks away.

He walks toward the silence of the mind.

He lives in a place inside himself I'm not allowed into for as long as six months. 

As if six months would change it somehow. 

As if I were sick and just needed time to recover. 

He does this thing,  

the bearer of my dreams. 

He cuts communication. 

In a way I feel guilty for saying it out loud. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

I. 

Even knowing love is

the one thing no one should ever be ashamed of.

I. 

dead language alive

This is again
a language to say.
Back from the dead

without stories
it remains pure;
The tongue

licks old truths
as it would do
to open wounds

just now with an
improved understanding
of the physiology of taste.

You are standing in a field looking at the stars

I have now renamed
the world around me
after you:
the alarm clock,
the toothbrush,
the stars in the sky at 5:30 a.m.
when I leave for work,
the clouds
(when they are there),
the sunrise,
the empty seat next to mine
on the bus,
the subway stations,
the trains,
every block I have to
walk back from work,
the trees I rush past,
the traffic lights, 
my keys,
the shower,
my own reflection
in the mirror,
the pillows,
the bedroom walls.