wait for me, i say.

i will come.

not perfect and not honest and not completely and

not ever.

though mostly,

i will come with the best i can give,

the only i can give,

and

i will come.

wait for me, i say.

please.

wait for me.

i plead not because i believe no one else will ask (though as i age, this idea comes quickly and appropriately to pass)

but because i won't.

ask, that is.

because i won't. don't.

want to, even.

sounds ambivalent.

wrong.

what's inside begs to ask, begs to plead, to define the lesser of me, the living me, everything i hesitate to give,

the every known lost love

and while there i reach not for limitless comparison but for this:

every small success sung

every slurred morning

every sawtooth smile.

so.

so wrong.

and now, seeking salvation, i ask for this:

no transcendent want,

but

every small and honest failure,

nothing larger than ourselves

no greater love than what we seek to create

(now, at least)

nothing that implies such static and damage and anger and loss

just everything that believes only in work

and in every morning loved

skin

to

skin.