I want to be the music
that makes her eyes close;
kiss her while she’s crying,
and listen as she spirals into
her safe-at-last internal hellscape
I want to be a habit
that benefits her health
No more aching in the mask,
or picking out pre-approved words
from those never-ending eggshell crawls
I want to be the honest answer
that trusts her kind curiosity
To look in her wet-wood irises,
and offer a canopy of relief,
is what my nature intended
Alas, she’s the rings of Saturn,
and I am one of Jupiter’s moons