The water washed us regal,
the seven hands regain.
The little hell with haste would keel,
and the hate in us retreat.
Your arms were screened in halos,
your stuttered light reborn;
your open shell would crack and cave
until his name was sworn.
Spilled on open canvas,
your spine was all in bloom,
and it had been gently handled,
then broken to make room
for more heart and bigger lungs,
the space in you was filled;
the white ceiling from which you'd hung,
the shadows you had spilled.
In driven light you stared through me,
in dark rooms we would touch;
my nerves would grow and heart would shrink,
and they would stiffen up.
Statuesque with broken backs,
we crawled in open air,
and everything that we had lacked
revealed and repaired.
Pale skin in blackened dress,
you danced like darkness would;
if only I was fearless,
I was braver in boyhood.