Tonight you sent me all your secrets.
The one’s I have been digging for.
They sit like dirt under my nails,
but I am not eager to wash my hands.
I let them fester.
When I look at you, I see so many things
that the last few pages of my journal
have been eaten up with every
adjective about the way you
run your hands down my broken body.
I know that you like your coffee black, and that
my ravenous energy scares you.
Or maybe that it fills you.
And maybe you like that.
I know that I am always on the tip of your tongue,
but in the vessel of your thoughts
and that you might think I am crazy.
Sometimes I am surprised
that after all the kerosene I’ve drank
in the name of love, that I am still alive.
But you are the like the white light, that
they talk about.
The one that reminds you that
the world is filled with tiny, beautiful, people.
Tiny beautiful moments.
Caramel eyes and unanswered questions.
Red wine in bed and mid day naps.
And all of those tiny, beautiful moments, have let the broken record
that is my heart off the hook.
And it is nice to know that my heart, whatever hook it is on, only belongs to me.
So now I know, that when they talk about the white light, what they really talk about is you.