Promethean
I can picture you
on chairs at night,
the chaos of your mind
unprecedented, unknown,
wholly contained.
I can picture your hair
like a waterfall of blood
down each shoulder,
down onto your chest.
I can imagine
a thousand midnights
where you are mine
and just that
picture
changes everything.
I still write you poems
like a bastard
chained to a rock
and call me masochistic,
call me Promethean,
but I don't ever regret
giving you my fire.
11/04/2014
Richmond
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