although I have never had you
in any way, and am not owed anything
by you, I circle around continually to
how I desire to come back to you.

you with your words and your line
breaks, do we make sense? do I?
I fear you will search me for love and,
finding so much disquiet, think me unlovely.

you with your definition and mind
and expansive thoughts, your activism,
your powerful way of walking thru the world--
how can I compete for you, or compare?

I cling mostly to ideas of beauty, of
interest or complexity, I string together
all of the depth that I can in hope that
it will differentiate my self for you.

because I am not beautiful-- because I
am more likely covered in ink and scars
and paint and poison ivy than not-- I think
I am obligated to provide veneer

except that in our moments together,
your honesty is so clear-eyed, so open-mouthed,
what can I do but be bare? to trust that
you could learn to think me lovely

for all the mistakes and missteps
that are an integral part of my directionality.
you are your own compass, and mine
points north, to home, and peace.