Purple

Because I worship daily at the altar of this love, doomed and fractured as it may be, I make my way to your house and sit on the porch. I have come armed; my books accompany me. I attract no attention to myself, content at being this close to you. But even in my state of bliss, I can see the beginnings of chaos around me. I see you behind curtains of self-righteousness, safely ensconced in the fabric of sacrifice. You worry that I will make a scene, that I will not, contrary to what I had promised, disappear quietly into the night. That I do not, contrary to what I had said, understand.

And you’re right. I don’t.

Despite all talk of self-respect, I have no qualms when it comes to begging for a chance. Except that I do it with whatever dignity I can muster. I use my words, my eyes, my general outlook to the world, my wanting to live each day and not wait, my conviction that what I feel is real. And hope that the curtains will lift and the fabric will fall and you will be who you are and who I long for you to be. Just you. And just me.