I Know It Doesn't Really Work That Way

I know it doesn't work that way, but-
sometimes I see your heart: a treasure chest
to keep the things you keep close to your chest

(sadness, love, the wind against your cheeks,

hopes, frustration, what keeps you up at night,
what makes your breath hitch and your pelvis buckle)

to keep it all from spilling and unspooling:
a wooden chest with precious carvings and a lock.

I know it doesn't really work that way.

I know it doesn't work that way, but-

sometimes I sense you handing me a key

to see the things you can't want me too see

(a look, a sign, a sudden snort of laughter,

an unexpected hug, unspoken understanding,
pale hands in mine as snow billows outside)

a silver key to open up your heart and find
scant, tight-bound clues for me to achingly unwind.

I know it doesn't really work that way.

I know it doesn't work that way, but-

sometimes, on dusty nights in your appartment

it seems I've got the key and ought use it

(the boring feeling of your raw-boned body,

wine and laughter long downed into silence

the gathering dark of conversation gone to sleep)

but still you sneak out underneath my fingers
refuse to open up, closed off, linger.

I know it doesn't really work that way.

I know it doesn't work that way, but-

sometimes, I think: we're so mismatched already

me: open wide, a tendency to spill myself all over you

(I can't imagine you care that much about my life

my hopes and fears, what keeps me up at night

my love for your cheeks, reddened by the wind)

and all I want: be covered in your love like you're in mine

unspool that tight-bound rope inside the chest inside your chest

and knit a strong, warm, rainbow-colored blanket.
I know it doesn't really work that way.