Gazing at our wardrobe,
I feel victorious. It has taken us hours
to unpack all of your clothes.
It makes me think, maybe you would have
a difficult time moving out, after all.

They fancied me a devil. Wanted
to burn me at the stake, chanting, cheering.
And you to be a king, a god, mythos incarnate.
Instead, you have lovingly placed your shoes next to mine.
It does not make sense to me.
You do not make sense to me.

My heart is a twisted thing. Gnarled, bitter.
Like the roots of the evergreen outside.
On sticky summer nights, when we are covered in sweat
I do not let you roll away.
In the mornings, we shower together.
I wash your hair and marvel at the both of us.

You are marred, battle-wounded.
To me, you are the most beautiful thing in the world.
Holding you makes me think, perhaps
I do not need to be a devil. I do not need to burn at the stake.
Perhaps, joining your disciples...yes.
I think it would be enough.