To my son;

Son, I am afraid that inside of all of us
there exists a universe of misunderstandings
galaxies of doubt, hot burning stars of best intentions
I want you to know that these celestial creatures,
infinite in our chests,
are at the mercy of only our own creation

Because you, you are more than a collection
of my spare parts and yielding wire,
more than the silt of my eroded ambitions,
more than the grit of your fathers afflictions
You are no simple combination of our love,
no random recipe of genes and chromosomes,

you are the infinitesimal stirrings of
a new world.

Text Messages;

"I'll risk it."
I read your words as if they are
the climax of someone else's tragedy
I know your words, I have memorized
their careful form and feelings and this,
this is a forgery of a hypocrite
of someone desperate, reckless
You could not have committed such
a crime against our common language,
the language we so precisely scripted

And in an instant, I realized you only
loved me like someone loves winter
before it begins, like someone loves
rain but shuts their eyes at the sight
of lightning, like the restless artist
who leaves every painting half-finished
I know this is how you love me, dear,
because when a man whispers
to another woman he'll risk it,
the winters, the rain, the paintings,
he damned well better mean it.