My world revolves around him
don’t tell him.
He dictates the weather
in my side of the globe
down to the
alphabetized names
of the typhoons.
My sun does not shine
until he tells me good morning
and I can breathe
only after he’s made me laugh.
The flow of his mind,
the music he chooses to play
for the day,
the line of attack
on reality
his conversation takes
give me the choreography
for my life’s footwork,
an itinerary
mapping my own thoughts
that I faithfully adhere to,
for fear of getting lost.
The light goes out
in my solar system
when he pays more attention
to her
than to me;
I’ve been living
in a perpetual dawn
or a suspended twilight,
the forbidden beauty
of contradiction,
of defiance,
decorating my gilded cage
with adamantine brilliance.
He is my satellite
on whose possession
I have handed over
my nights,
and a single movement by him
decides whether
I’ll sleep like a child,
or be visited
by bogeyman nightmares,
or toss and turn
in senile wakefulness.

He holds the key
to my existence
and yes, you can tell me
it’s unjust
to let him live
rent-free inside my head
but he’s worth it.
God, he’s so worth it.

Either that,
or the grandeur of my universe
is infinitesimal
compared to the
aleph-dimensional spirit
I glimpse in his right eye
—the one with the
29-year-old scar beside it—
every blessed time
he looks at me.

I wish he knew.