Originally posted 4/13/2013.
I grew up knowing I had a place
in the universe, my place secure
at all levels from atomic to galactic.
I wanted so much less.
Wanted acceptance
by someone
more particular
about who they find worthy
than the universe ever could be;
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 that 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 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 —
unseen but present in every fiber.
I got you, who makes me
want to be good in the kitchen, in bed,
and the Milky Way.
Whatever sun storm I rouse
around me,
you make me lie down
and sleep it off, and
by the next day it’s forgotten.
I craved turbulence
and you’re having none of that.
It is a little hard to believe
which is why I guess
I sometimes act the part
of the dented angel,
though I can’t fake it for long:
it’s hard to keep up the pretense
that heaven is hard to find.
Dark Matter 