He(Art)

I’d weave my hands through your hair,

unless

you can think of something better,

but I

like to approach the tower of your body like a

needle through a thread

and then

lay in surrender along

cloths of regrets we’ve made.

I’d also sharpen my nails

to feel keen across your back

but I

kind of like the blunt circles

I’m drawing on your blades from scratch

that lack

all the clarity, and sincerity

that only carefully pointed words can pack.

I like to think of you as my failed “clair de lune”,

and my foggy “starry night”.

And I’ve just realized

that what’s bad for your heart

is good for your art.