Coming Home

Yesterday, you came home to me;
not for the first time, nor at first sight,
not with the props of adolescent image
or the candied icing of wishful thinking.
You came as you were, grimed, sand engrained
and taking up more space than expected.
I relinquished your side of the bed, I sorted
through your clothes on the floor, I went
to search you out among your machines and
found you knee deep in dogs, smelling sweetly
of whiskey and wintergreen. What is love,
that it allows, so effortlessly, your entry into
my private and careful configurations?
Last night, you relinquished the dregs
of your bitter confessions; once spoken,
their darkness dissipated into tears
that I felt upon my face; as though
baptizing me into an understanding
of love never before realized.
In that moment, my arms could shelter,
but that consolation was merely
temporal; because of that clarity, I
found a voice to beg your return to me.
This sentiment you found only sweet,
it couldn't reach your core-where
duty and guilt combine to make up
a purpose too raw and elemental to be
ignored. Others died, you did not; yet.
With typical cavalier disregard, you will
ignore the sacrosanct edict for self
preservation; instead, you will surrender
your illusion of safety to a tangible
and raw understanding of human mortality,
and to the sovereignty of God, your debt
to Whom you acknowledge nightly.
Though you love me, that offering
cannot be less than your equal as a man;
limitation and ability both serve to define
everything you pour out to me and darling,
I will hold every part, scarred or not.