She, the Open Door

Her voice is the dawn, but my covers are pulled tight. These words fill my ears, echo in the chambers, and I rest upon cupid’s bow. This pain is sharp. Her scars define her beauty, insight, and anger. There are but two roads, they say, and one is lost in time.

My voice shudders in her great presence, and her eyes awaken. In this wasteland of overused excuse, I am at odds with myself. If her hands could shape me, then my fingers could understand her. Still, my ragged tongue scrapes across words in the desolation of forgotten depths.

She is the midday bounty, proud and rich; smile blushing of honey and wine. Mine, a crushing famine: the unspoken honesty. A closet has many doors, it is meant to hide. These coats are lies, waiting to be worn; truth packed away like an ugly hat. There is always a gun in a shoebox, somewhere.

My peace within silk and cashmere eyes, and arms as the calming eve. She is a roadmap, but I am within the trees. There are many colors buried beneath, twisting within me, winding away. I am not the evening star, I am not a circle. Her blossoming in rosebud, a path toward home. Every step I take is a thousand miles and stillness.

Forsaking that burdened choice, that forked road, I never need return. She is the guiding star, naked and brilliant. I am still breathing, still moving. It takes practice. Years spent in hiding pass, and an open door is the endurance beyond. I step out, and I am afforded that same pride. She grants it with her mouth.