You poured the coffee
like you were tipping light from
a crystal coffer, delicate and wordless
while the air tingled and radiated
in a burst of brilliant, squirming
molecules around you.

I sputtered a few mouthfuls of silence,
an awed acolyte in your white dress shirt
(buttons undone and the holes
seeming desperately empty).
The circles under my eyes and the smell
of cigarettes burned into my skin,
regenerating more of the same smoky cells,
slipped like shadows to the sundial of your
burnt sienna tile. The sink, cool and colloidal,
was my baptism, though you could
never be a priest… you’re too pure.

I felt your wings last night
(seraphim boy)
when you turned my face,
fingers pliable and soft against
the polluted perfection of my cheek,
and said “I want a place in your world.”

It’s going to be a long road down the
stained-glass trail of what i’ve lost.
I was beautiful once, but for now you’re too good for this
silhouetted angel
(a study in the black voids between stars
or the spaces between seconds)
and i
won’t
let you fall beside me.