Who could all this for be if not you?
This simple, slow rhythm gently galloping along the page?
This golden-beaked finch in my left hand?
This whale in my aching belly?
This trembling lip holding back a sputtering flood?
This supple caress of your tired thigh?
This silent shout across the evening horizon?
This blinding, crippling insight?
Who, if not you?
This quaking desire crumbling to dust every holy temple?
This blistering heat setting fire to every last library?
This loverly confusion occluding every way?
This exasperated existence defined by your name?
Whose name, if not yours?
Whose face to dream, if not yours?
Whose body to enlighten, if not yours?
Whose soul to ignite, if not yours?
Who? Who? Like a goddamn owl, if not you?
Whisper it to me.
Sneak into my room.
In the early afternoon.
Whisper your name.