he is metaphor, he is not metaphor

there are ways to disappoint your lover
and i have listed them in other poems,
poems about misery and trees and a
billion beautiful things, especially him

like holding the dream in a frame of your mind
and holding twelve limp doves instead,
blood trickling down their variegated feathers in

to holding your breath that one day they will
find the pathway to a gapless,
read: pure,
no such things as dreams or needing
to dream.

he would never disappoint me anyways
being that he is who he is.
being that being he is who he is,
one person is only themselves, never in error.

disappointment is not the night
but the shade cast from the chest

for i do not know
what is written on my heart
or what it is capable of


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