Chris Robinson’s Poem.

#11, or “His Love is Like a Whisper

You ask me not to silence my passion, all the while dousing your flames in tepid waters

I wonder if you know that I have been burned

That the material of our scars is tougher than unmarred flesh

That even suffering can be graceful if you don’t do it alone

But you’ve been on your own for so long

The real kind, where your solace,

Messiah and helping hand are all one with the man in the mirror I surmise this is why your love is like a whisper; soft, and leaves me tingling down to my toes, but quiet

Very quiet Almost as if you’re afraid to make a home in me

Like you would struggle for warmth in a cold storm just to keep my embers warm

Not knowing that I am solar flare given form

That I was a storm chaser before I knew the difference between snow and hail and lightning and thunder

That freezing hearts shrink away from me with snarl and hiss because they know I will melt them down to their barest puddles of unresolved traumas and lies we tell ourselves to keep going

Beautiful boy, I ask if you know that I truly see you

And that these eyes are not cages or pointed fingers looking to make you hero nor villain of this story

Only to let you know that I have also been that small child with a voice drowned out by voices that like to make their nothing sound like everything

To let you know that you were never supposed to be told to bottle it up, keep it in, stop crying, lock it away

To tell you that our pasts may be written in stone, but we can lay down our uncertainties like cement on a new sidewalk

And tread on them until we are a beaten path that you know like the back of your hand

Know that I would want to hear your voice and words every day if I didn’t think it would scare you

And that I sit with baited breath and coiled stomach pondering how much is “too much” all the time

That I am still afraid you will think my askance of you, sacrificial 

That no matter how brightly our love shines, you will never let it lead you home.