There’s an
empty space in my sentences for you

if you want
to fill it, to add a subject where there

is none,
where there should be. I have no gods,

no demons,
not many secrets. I have skin and bones

and a
passport and a heart with four chambers.

Isn’t that
enough; shouldn’t that be enough?

Maybe in this
world of ghosts and giants, I should

expect fewer
ethereal wonders than I do. I think

too much and
I build walls around myself, brick by

brick. I want
this more than anything, but so many

words get
lost under my clumsy tongue. I wish I

could tell
you how much I want to draw your

portrait in
charcoal, smudge the circles under

your eyes
with my fingers until they blend

into the
paper. I want to know your birthmarks,

your scars,
your jumbled-up muscles, to feel the

veins which
run like Braille along your

skin. I want
to cut the earth with a spade and hear

it cry out
and I want to sew it back up again

with
sunflowers so that the world blooms with us.

I ask for too
little and I get little in return.

I’ve grown up
and now I’m realizing that nothing

will ever
come free to me.