Take me there. To the point of all return where somehow - I am seen complete, again and seamless. In self-reflection, that is. Because mirrors don’t do me justice when I view myself with heavy eyes that swell, so I concern myself with fragrant arms and branching fingers that do me well to ease. I need that. Like smoking candles, I had glow that filled a hollow space, but these prayers dissipate to reach the gods where fire cringed the wick, melted the wax, and lifted the sent to attract the soul. And breathe. You fool. How this too has become complicated, I know, but turning pale won’t hide the blue in you. In me, I mean, but I digress from the courage that admitting I have a problem ensues. And like an empty cup, I’ll say I’m half full, but lies are hard to cover when I spill them from my eyes. I don’t do this on purpose. For purpose is what I lack, and so child, I am, to wear thonged slippers, blue trunks, and kevlar as if their eyes won’t shoot my downcast, but I can run, you know - like the blood to a cherry blossom face after the bottles bleed before the feet of his fleeting sobriety. I can run, like a kiss that loves your heart with speed to cross the distance between your lips and your chest. Yes, I can run - but you exist to take me there, so I’ll collapse between your knees to cry you closer still. Take me there. As I look to the home upon your chest.