Dented Angel

I grew up knowing I had a place in the universe.
As star matter I was perfect in that universal way.
I’ve always known my place both atomic

and galactic. Screw that, though;  
I wanted so much less.  
Wanted a moment, a week, a month, no more,

of acceptance by someone
more particular about who is worthy
than the universe is.

Someone pickier, someone less tolerant
of quirks and foibles.  I wanted to be loved
by a person far less interested in loving another.

I wanted to be held and cherished
on a more intimate scale,
but I wanted the Lover

to be a dented angel
who found a simulacrum of heaven in me
despite their initial skepticism at how unlike heaven

I was on the surface.  What I nakedly wanted
was to be desired by someone
the way Emerson and his gang desired transcendence

except I wanted them to find it hard,
almost not worth struggling for;
it wasn’t going to come easily.

Instead, I got you.  I got you
who loves me daily, as matter-of-factly
as dark matter sweeping through me — the love

unseen but present in every fiber.
I got you, who makes me
want to be good in the kitchen, in bed, and in the 

Milky Way.  Whatever sun storm I rouse
around me, you make me lie down and sleep it off
and the next day it’s forgotten.  I craved turbulence

and you’re having none of that.  
It is a little hard to accept which is why I guess
I sometimes act the part of my imaginary dented angel,

though I can’t fake it:  I can’t lie
to myself for very long
about how hard heaven really is to find.