my love, he enjoys the springtime.
the butterflies / they follow him
like dogs on a leash, cover him
they make him a crown from their
beating wings, like hearts upon
his head. he begs for deliverance.
only the butterflies hear his
whispering words to gods / he
hopes will hear / but he forgets
yet again / that he is a god himself
made of everything / they have ever
known. he is substance and lack of it.
i envy him with his hands of grace
his tongue / of lace instead of knives.
he asks for liberation but he liberates
my soul into worlds / unknown
filled with golden feathers and halos.
my blood runs thick / his runs thicker
with soft hair that / turns golden in
the sun, he shines as bright
as anything / i’ve ever known
brighter than the halos of the angels
filled with colors that could best
the boldest / painters, he is a painting
in motion / this i know
he is art come alive and dancing
through the clouds and heavens
to reside in the sun, where holiness
runs free like children in the street
and i hope he is never forgotten
like how he has forgotten all
that he was and should be, like
he has forgotten / someone like me.