head/heart
some men are drowning made quiet.
You don’t fight. You go under.
some are thresholds
you cross—
and leave yourself behind.
they’re often drywall
painted over.
rarely towers
with windows you can see from.
some are open:
gutted,
still bleeding.
and many are shut:
raised white scars.
they’ll be heat
bending the air off pavement—
then
sudden, merciless rain.
you forget your footing
with men shaped like that.
You are:
The knot in my chest that holds.
A soft light.
The hand at the base of my neck.
Head.
Heart.
Heart again.
Eyes that beg,
that smile,
that fold,
that close
at the exhale.