after sunday morning prayers, you took
your seat at the gray table, the soft light
feathering your shoulders, your
unsmiling face.

around us the light was accusing, the flowers were bent
to come closer to the rumbling
noise of the crowd.

and where i sat with my knees
locked, i could see each of your movements,
that were, without a doubt, too domestic, much
too intimate for me to comprehend.
it seemed
like you were undoing yourself in front of my eyes.

instead of the quaint movements of your
body, i thought i saw you
loosen your collar, just a bit.

apollo, no doubt, you were, savoring
       the treats of our people and i
almost stopped moving to enjoy your
pleasure. instead, i licked the sweet, greek honey
off my hands.

i saw you
  do the same.

you were in a world of your own,
of a different generation, of a different
decade. you were
         surrounded by people who
         did not have the capacity to
         ever really bloom, unlike you

                        who unfolded
                        petal by petal with each word
                        you said to me
                        with each gesture.

yet when you spoke, you seemed almost
sage-like in your mannerisms. but you
were lagging behind their words, and
                like me, you were
closed off from the heart of the people
around you; to them,

you
were, like me
dispensable.

i thought
that one day they'd reject you
thoroughly, leaving
you,      bended knees on
             hot earth. with your messiah-like
assurance, you were not

them

you were not me.

but
against the accusing
sky you
found my person and the wind
pulled up your lips, and your
rarely bare eyes met mine,
        teasingly
through
        your lashes.

apollo, undoubtedly, you were

dropping the moment
swiftly, knowing you could
do better,

and licking that
sweet honey off your fingers, like
a cat in the summer heat.