in this paragon’s fortress of solitude
all my thoughts are heroic.
as more and more
it takes less and less
to hold this imaginable,
almost alien, hope that love
might breed us into heroes
with powers to fool and pardon
with an x-ray vision to see,
and be,
that tender infinity
between those moments of making a self.
in truth, I wonder if love can have a hero
although there are those times without doubts
about the clarity of supposition,
where there’s touch
that certifies
that we can be
a certain beautiful thing.
two hearts that craft a hero’s code.
that spooned, attuned,
in semi-sacred consolation
for 20 and 10 remembrances
which lessened the room for doubt.
yet still …
even with heated flesh on flesh
I find sometimes
it’s lust
that gets defined
as love.
but hoping heroes are human too
with all the villains of imagination subdued
we are just hearts
enticed to hold each other’s
every fragile awkward gesture,
affirmed to be enough.
two heroes, two hearts
without the need to be persuaded.
to simply be an imprint
on impermanence,
heading home
remembering, embracing
the rhythm,
the patience
of ordinary things,
which is all that love may very well be.
—Ed Sancious
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