Because Poetry

My heart has been in hiding ever since
he took me off of it and painted him
like skin, like sin, like things I can't evince,
like reds and blues and moods, he painted him.

There's this bed I sail on
during nights darker than his eyes.
And it feels like so many storms
trying in vain to set me right.
I write.
Because poetry.

There's a tear that I never shed;
I bled red, but I never shed,
this truth that I left unsaid.
I write. I write.

A million gongs to the morning,
bells and more bells-
he tickles and I cry,
our silences have gone dry
we try
to keep away.

A million alarms to the night,
we feign sleep before shadows.
They make love while we
make poetry.
Because poetry.