Dear One, I am sorry to have to appear before you like this.
Dressed in my Sunday’s best, a modest green tie, black coat, black shoes
With silver bracelets clasped around my feet.
I would have liked for you to see me differently
Or perhaps just the same but in a time after this
In a place that is not this, where it is not needed
To have these strong bars and glass not keeping me in
But keeping you out. If only to impede you
From telling me of how much you want for me
Of how your pain parallels my time away
Of how you fear your arms will weaken without my chest
But One, if you have to express this, that which
I already know, when I appear before you I would ask you to
Cover your mouth and to strap your arms at your side
Such formalities necessary to hold in feelings that with-
Would fill my heart too heavy, you see.
Without you it is light and light is how I would like it kept
For when I appear before you like this
I cannot have that weight in my heart collapse me
In arms I won’t feel for years.

I love you in ways immeasurable
On timelines that have no end
In cups that aren’t marked
And on rulers that aren’t straight
In some ways I love you like a child
Who never learns that the stove is hot
And in some ways like a student
Reading and studying you all night  
Always I love you but sometimes
In ways I don’t understand
Like how I love you like I love
Salt, and water, and sand
Though the ocean still seems too deep
Like how I love you in my dreams
But not always when you steal covers in my sleep
I love you in strange ways that I fear
Will never be truly known
Like how I love you for years
In one day that you’re not home
Or like how my love for you
Is a poem always writing about itself,
Folding up its words and placing them on the very top shelf.

And what of the eighth day? When did God sense the ethereal rush of completing a project was wearing off? Does God get bored? Does he, like everyone else, grow tired of the mundane and of the usual?  God projecting his own image onto his creations was not enough anymore. Too lonely was God and too curious he was to be left unattended with the power to elude the impossible. Too lonely he was, too much he wanted to be around others like himself, too much time he had spent with his own thoughts reverberating off the walls of his own making, shouting back ideas already known to him. Too curious he was to see what would happen if he could experience the company and love of others like himself, and too insightful he was to know all of these things existed in his mind but not as a firsthand account. Too self-aware he was to not understand that a genuine account of such feelings was what he wanted. He felt all the feelings we feel; curiosity, loneliness, boredom, company, and love. He understood them so completely and totally in the world he created that he grew tired. And then the only feelings God could now sense were those of loneliness and of guilt; strong undying feeling of regret of knowing things that only he has ever felt. With these thoughts encircling his heavy mind he also realized that if he were to create another like him, he could not control it. His identity would have to be shared with another complete equal. Could he have this? Too wise he was to not account for the repercussions of his artistic actions; God was still. For God like all of us God wishes to be special, to be unique, and to have control; control, the original ***** of God. God realized this at the dusk of the seventh day; he realized that now after looking at the last of all his great creations the problems with the ones before. In no measurable time he had created many planets, worlds, kingdoms, and creators, none holding his attention long enough to not create the next.  So these, he muttered in his kingdom of unshared silence, these had to be different. Not God enough to oppose him but human enough to feel him.

I love you now as only few things are to be loved
Within the secret of an untouched desire
Or in the dark esoteric of a thought
So I am further gone than you might have expected
Down your chords of tragic intonation
For it is unknown to me yet, your guile,
Behind your harmonious guise
The worm in my heart has always
Been the apple of your eye.

one of eight strapped to this tree
with threats of knifes that turn bark into skin
branches into limbs
if only the connections deep as my roots
did not entangle my own mortality if only they
could be severed easily as my leafs in fall
then perhaps my pinch dripped heart
would not punish those who hurt it
whom at first pruned with the promise of love
then betrayed with blades of unrequited rapture
those whom just did not understand the veins between
life and limb.

my spine grows further and further
up my neck it releases seeds of thought
upblooming in my very heavy head
weeds and flowers alike it drops
enwombed in my crescent head
the weeds grow right
the flowers grow left
each soil my mind with beauty and reason
the flowers they speak
of creating and love all other things ascetic
the weeds teach me logic, numbers, and phrases
they warn me of anything poetic
I am inclined to deny my bias for either
For such a balance they create
But as of late I am pruning my mind with deft
And find that I am of Ehud’s left.

I cage in God.
With glorious bars
Too small for his fingers
He releases his singers
Plucking chords made of nerves
Swelling with each note served
Undefined voices will swirl
With planetic like twirls
Filling my senses with increasingly
Distrusting incentives.