I know your secrets
         and your secret favorite place
                                                       to be touched.

                                   After puberty whispered its way
                                                              into the gnarled locks
                                   of your swiftly growing hair
                                         I began hearing your harrowing lies
                                                                  and frankly, fool,
                                                                        they’ve been killing me,
                                                                                                                    fast.

                              I watched as you walked
                    down beside her bed,
                                      thinking thistled things  
              as you thoughtlessly threw away
                                  my innocence.
                               Afterwards, I carefully considered crying,
                                    while you whispered your mistakes
                   into her fluffy goose-feather pillow.

We both know that
                                       God is Love
                       Love is God
  and Godliness is a great gourd
                                   Of goodly proportions,
                                              shared with the masses
                                                        of a saturday social.
And, unfortunately,
      we both have found
             that the masses
                   know very little of Love,                       
                                                  God,
                                         Godliness or,
                                                goodliness.   
                      (truely, they hardly hear their own mass!)

                                      Sadly, sometimes I see
                                                          things from you
                                                                         that I would prefer
                                                                                                      not to see.

                        I’ve told you twice
                                                                             (or ten thousands times,
                                                                                            I can not remember)
                        to hold your dreams tightly.





You never listen.




                                   I have confidence you won’t forget
                                                  to tuck your memories neatly
                                             in an alphabetically-organized drawer
                 under the tiny mind-dwelling television set
called repression’s last stand
              before you retire                                           (at some ungodly hour,
                                                                                                                   I’m sure)
              for sleep.

                            And from such compulsions,
            I know you will die                                       (only slightly,)
on your insides.

                                 Likewise, I began dieing
                                             inside                          and out
                                     the day I met you.

                                       Such thoughts lend me
                                                              little more than a saddened spirit
                                                                                     and several sticky binds.

                           However, on that fateful day
                     when screams scattered through
                                a cluttered hospital room,
                                               raging, ruefully
                             in search of ears to assault,
              and a soon-to-be father's fitful glances
                      exchanged themselves gratefully
                                          for gracious smiles
                                                                       I can’t forget,
                                                                       that I also began
                                                                       to Live.   

                                                   So, with courage brought on
                                    by countless conversations
                                              with God                                                                        (and with you)
I assert, with earnesty
                       that I refuse                                                                                   (like Donnie Darko
                                                                                  Or whoever else might make their glass emptier
                                                                                                 ‘til, eerily, we all find it is half empty,)
                              to die alone.
  


            I’ll die in Your arms,
                                           friend.
           Mark
                             my
                                             words.
                                               

                                  
                                  I will die in Your arms.