Your thoughts, your feelings—your experiences
have resonated with me
have plucked a string of memory
and resounded a simple twang
a familiar, wistful pitch.
I remember the furtive act
moving into the warm
embrace of man—a man who lets me in,
a man I let inside of me—to the dark places,
washing over me, unexpectedly.
I am not all-knowing, but I do know this:
You are good. And you will be good.
You will rest softly in banks of glittery snow,
like an angel,
and the steady wind will cover your misery.
When you rise up to greet the morning,
the air that you feel on your tongue
becomes our air, whispering.
Your air is the same air as mine.