A Bronze God, or a Letter on Demand

I like to think of your silence as the love letters you will not write me, as two sax solos from two ages across a stage, learning the languages of kissing with your eyes closed. I like to think of you as a god to whom I no longer pray, as a god I aspire to. I like the opening of your joined palms, which is like an urn where my ashes find a home. The music of your lashes; the silent way your body wears out mine. Mostly, I like to think of you at night when a black screen of shining dust shines from your mines to the edge of my skin, where you are a lamp of flutters. I remember the spectral lashes–marigold, tamarind, secret thing between your thighs, of closed kissing eyes. At night, the possibility of you is a heavy sculpture of heavy bronze at the side of my bed, a god. And I pray you into life. Into flesh.