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While you struggled
to hold your cold, hard
and precious ground,
I'm sure you noticed me
as I passed you,
falling where I stood.

I wish you could find it in you,
to let go of safety
and hold on to me.

Expectation has held me
when your arms could not,
made my barren bed
seem full,
promises warming the space
that flesh was too removed
to heat,
rooting out the aching
cavity of emptiness.

When your words remove
my promises
the blank space beside me
grows in weight,
in the absence of assurance
presses me out of comfort
and into loneliness.

I've been thinking about empty bellies
and social heirarchies.

Social heirarchy doesn't exist
within the language of love.

Paupers rise higher
than kings.

And big men like you,
who measurement has drawn above me,
become little boys,
that shrink within the cirle
of their lovers' arms.

And I have shrunk
having failed you,
I have failed myself.
But I think it really was in me
to want to put you
before myself.

Truth be told,
I want to give you the best of me,
so I shall try,
all I want to know is,
can I simply have
what is left of you?

And could you ever
let go of safety,
let go of cold, hard, but stable ground
and hold on
to me,
let yourself fall
through warm, receptive air,
that couldn't promise stability
or safe landings?