There’s a typewriter furnace tucked into my gut. Its ink seeps from my heart. The backspace key is a missing rib juxtaposed to return. Put your fingers to the letters that spell your name in the present tense; draw a sentence from the intrigue holster in your heart; break the paper white face of my letter head with the honesty of your everything. Inspire me.
Unshave me. Let me grow. Give me time. Don’t judge me on the result but on my progression. Know that I am more than a framed piece of art hung in the museum of your chest. Know that I am interactive. I’ve always been here; will always be here if you’ll let me. I am home even if you’ve never lived here. My heart- less like fireplace more like solar power. My mouth- less like speakeasy lips more like library tongue. In all the metaphors I can conjure the escalators are illusions, we’re all takin’ the stairs and I don’t wanna race. I just wanna stop, for a minute, and allow ourselves the infinity of acknowledging how far we’ve come.
I brought the sermon to your Sundays. You brought the choir to my masses. We built a church around these esophagus bell towers.