Not Two Hairs Alike

Telling a man you love him
is like confessing
a murder—devolution
at best, the heart severed in
two, given to him when
the only other solution
is silence—and the silent
never win.

So I told him, and I
prepared to face the chair;
detention for its conception:
my plan to make vulnerable my
soul, to lay its secret bare—
But why now? Asking
as if our passion dared
be forgotten, I

Fell into him, my sizzling
skin settling for his sentence
instead of fighting; my sin
my honesty, which frightened
him—all blood, crimsoned, shed
and turning from his gaze
to not be blinded by its defiant
exhibition of innocence

Slowly called in, indebted like
luck to its narrowly escaping
death, I wanted to take
it back—when, shaking my
doubt, he said, I think
you’re an original; they don’t make
men like you, Jonathan—
not anymore, not two hairs alike

Hell itself sends apology
when heaven contends to pit
lovers against fate, and here we
are: winning, in spite of it—
the trifecta of calamity which
says we should have finished
long ago, but we’re still in

at which I recounted

All the awful crimes my
silence had permitted: how
a trinity of tribulations tried
to send me from him; now
he valued them as evidence so
convincing of how I’d
freed us both simply by saying
I We did it.