When you are gone for weeks at a time,
and we exist in 5 minute conversations—
I have a tendency to time them,
I get bored enough to start building things.
I steal away into woods
I ought not dare go,
and I harvest its gnarly branches,
twisted things they are.
I usually build a cabin of sorts,
something big enough for two.
It will burn hot.
It will burn bright.
I make weapons too,
things I convince myself you’ll be eager to carry
the next time I see you.
I spend a lot of time on these,
it takes hours to carve them just right,
they splinter on impact.
Hey, I need to keep my mind occupied, right?
Ah, but the cabin,
it comes together slowly, always slowly,
but surely nonetheless.
Conflicts I had forgotten begin to
worm themselves out of the woodwork
remind me with a tap on the shoulder of their
They are long dead, long into the process of decay,
but if I focus on them long enough,
they again gain a stench.
You, my dear,
are not a fighter.
I know this.
give me enough time and I
can turn you into one.
I do turn you into one,
and depending on how sleepless
my nights, sometimes
I even stock my own armory with shields, comebacks.
After all, I do need to defend against those weapons I so
I even rehearse, mentally of course,
but I play out the fight,
which usually ends with me setting
all this angry wood on fire.
It’s my chance to show you how
I can burn.
I am dangerous in here.
I get to count down your arrival,
keep my breathing even,
prevent the sweat from weakening the grip in my palms…
And you show up,
match in hand…
and we walk the edges of this meadow, this place
where my mind crafts citadels from twigs.
And you set the building ablaze yourself,
a light, careless flick of your wrist.
And we both watch.
And I feel warm.
And your hand is in mine.
And all I can think is
how much I would love to sit here,
plop down on a log and maybe roast some s’mores,
all while we curl up into a quilt, either yours or mine.
And you smile.
And the rest of me melts
I am liquid in your fingertips.
It’s a pattern, all of this,
practically a ritual.
And I must say I love the simplicity
with which you shatter
my built up battles.
You burn my fortresses to the ground
and the ash, my dear,
is sweet enough,
always sweet enough.
And now I can finally get back
to loving you.