unapologetics.

unapologetics.

how do we not grow hopeless once we’ve abandoned

the laying on of hands. i imagine your sun-warmed palm

pressing against the ache of my neck; this tired heart

has gone to salt, holds all holy things suspended

and still against my own beating bird heart, the latch

on my birdcage ribs begging to keep. when you whisper

against my forehead, some kind of anointing, i remember:

the middle of the night. a dim elevator. when you whisper

against my mouth, a soft prayer, the cosmos

are undone. i remember the heat, and the way the promises

seemed so permanent. the way it all seemed like magic-

the way, maybe, it was.