Hiding... still/home.

All the time, I stood before you,
Unmoving and not faltered,
Like some deeprooted tree,
Planted down by purestreams,
Fresh and light and watercooled,
And, full up on your delight.

Through the hours and days,
I held out my hands,
Writhed in the lust,
This concrete passion house,
The chase of the good fool
and the louse.

Through the days and weeks,
I sat time, life stilled into a hope.
That your passions would be,
One day my own,
Your truths would be my home.
Your hopes would be my dreams,
Your measures would be my means.
I milled about life/like,
Inside this dream
that would... not... be.

Through the weeks and months,
I walked about,
In circled plots,
No direction, save your own.
No room to carve out anything but
your throne.
No firsts, seconds, or
lasts.

I weighed out the blue,
and the passion colors,
like millstones handed down
as seeds to a maiden,
unnatural, un...true.

Through the months and this last year,
I became less than your muse,
Filled down and outside your truths,
No room to fill up on
my own insistent blue.
I etched out and placed on,
my good mask.
No questions for the maiden.
No hardship
no great task.

These last days,
I ask.
Hasn't it been good enough,
Kept your glasses full and
shoes tied and belly/full
and shirts crisp and flowers bloomed
and muses, beautiful
and lyrics
polished off like stones from diamond mines
and wishes and hopes
talked up and puffed up with
my own breath air
with no pretense,
no stench of duty.

These last hours and days,
His smile caught me sly and naught,
His movement full up on ease
but taut.
I moved inside his wingspan
and crept outward of your reign
into some new kingdom land.

Green fields, spilling into wide spaces.
And, I carved out thrones upon
pedestals here too.

The last days and weeks,
We danced a different moonlight dance,
We took a chance,
And at first light,
I took a rear glance,
Back from his space,
to your face,
into your place.