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


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.