the architect

In feathered blankets you, my vigilant,
mistake your eyes
for demons.

You who absorbs the arch of my bones,
who frames the shade of neon violet
to better sketch the bridge of freckles
no one else will see--
you are the builder,
the maker,
the pioneer.

In the aperture of your pupil,
I see not cerulean Styx
but Herculean blueprints for every waking hour
where you trace murmurs of my heavy breath
and turn them into art.

Before the sun has risen upon mortal follies
who have demolished spirits
and beg you, unknowingly,
to amend them, you are called to duty.

Hephaestus sanded your hands
to architect my heart valves, and I
like domicile vines,
climb slides from the pool to the scaffold
where you stand
sculpting stardust and salient tears.


for the one i love.
- e. chayes