the cup of heat that rests in my palm because
my hand is not quite flush against your skin--
I think you can hear me swallow past
the lump in my throat, a pebble compared
to the monolith of my fear that you will leave me--
you will leave me-- because I cannot
tell the truth or be a truth in my own body--
you will leave me-- to do the dishes
and talk to your mom and brush your hair
and maybe, if I am very very lucky,
you will come back to me again, and shore me up
against these rocky cliffs-- with your eyes
and your words and your faith

I am not worthy of the love you give to me
but this does not prevent me
from asking for more