He wrote a love song on my arm in sweeping, black ink,
                                                                                        with words I did not know
                 as I held back my whispers of longing,
                        prostrated before him,
                                                            as to God's rail.
Cold like the tropics,
                                and Hot like the poles,
                                 his eyes glowed
                                       a thousand
                                       shades
                                                                     of earth;
         he drew me a picture
                                             and wrote me a paragraph
                           as accurate as to the twelve-hundredth decimal place.

Thoughts that should have scared me came,
                                                                      lingered,
                                                                                    and felt like home.
I stared at the water dripping from his hair
                                                                    and lips
                                                                                and
      stood before him, scared shitless of disapproval
                                                          of the brown and white and red calico,
yet groping with my eyes for some semblance
                of tenderness and understanding implied
               by hours of wandering wherever my thoughts led,
                                  however far from the point I may have meandered.

The rain weeps for me
                                    as I ponder the worst-case
                                           pray for the best-case
                                    and pack my suitcase.