If I can be anything, let me be hope,
so that these abysmal hymns you love and love saltily, riotously –
your empty palms submerging under a new moon –
can be complimented with the purest antagonism.
Let me be the parallel that never lets you be,
the scent of rain-splattered gardenias
that comes to you in the alien of the universe
to caresses your subtext, to love and love glisteningly, expansively,
with words as true and cheeks sweet with tears.
I may not have depth as you
to drown my thoughts under, under, under still,
but I have height to see a great star peeking over the precipice of the world –
so dear god, let me be hope, as you are loss, as we are purposeful.
Together; apart. Undying as
the archetypal plays of the celestial theatre;
here, let our duality be distilled:
a dance of adoration for the cuts that sing
like birds at hungover dawn.