Heavy whorls in your hair,
I thought you were a secret poet.
I thought the hook of your nose,
the dawn-gray of your eyes, the
ragged flatness to your otherwise comforting baritone.
I thought the way your head felt cradled against my chest
and the clinging of your fingertips on my shoulder blades meant
we were made of a kind of courage that is both
titanous
and tentative,
the kind of courage needed to deeply love.
Your whispers at night were
methodologically, skillfully, cruelly, mellifluously constructed
pieces
to an epitaph.
In a way,
you were the poet I always knew you were.
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