In the wake of my unwieldy predisposition to death, 

the emergence of comforting sounds

penetrate the surging waves. 

No, he is not of the divine,

nor does he pretend to be.

Instead, he speaks in the language

of eyes and ears, 

so as not to cast booming shadows 

on my fragile words. 

 

He procures ropes from his pockets

and ties knots around our shoulders 

when I can no longer stand on my own terms.

 

He places his hands on the

crevices of my body,

so thoughtfully, 

and sings songs of our love to help me feel safe

from the obscure,

Dreadful Nights.

 

As I wither away

amidst my own hollow trunk,

forced upright in the new lecture room chairs

when my only desire is to shrink into nothing,

he speaks for the trees,

Always leaving an empty glass

on the table for my porous soul

to leak and be saved on our shelf for later,

Long after the day is over.

 

In my dismal fear

and cyclic thoughts and

shaking hands,

there is a billowing island in his eyes,

steadfast and eternal amid the ocean

that is my mind.

 

No, I do not have to question,

because I, and you, and love,

are unyielding in the thick of my never-ending,

forever apprehension.