"I want to pluck the chill from cold gardenias
and place it in your hair. I will be what you want of me—shadows of clock hands, the remaining
drop in a coffee spoon. Anything, except cruel.
I will take from you the crystals you keep tucked under parts you think are dying. And I will take
from me, the bone marrow that makes your lip quiver—piece together a city for you to live. We
can drink wine there. Or I can hold the wine cupped in my hands and we can wait for light from
the sky to cast a reflection of a better world. We can tell this world the stories we've given
happy endings to, and spite those fears that make us ashamed of such a simple longing.
But you want my story first, before I take your picture.
They killed the fathers, and left us to climb the trees looking for what remained of them. We climbed high, then climbed higher. We hung from the branches, and to test the ghost of our fathers, we let go. Some of us lived. The others we harvested like felled avocados.
So, here, a shot of you, with my story in your eyes. This will hold me until you are ready."
