Caught a Butterfly Inside a Jar . . .

Don't Say Sorry

Don't say sorry.
I want this.
This way with us, you so very much at the fore
of everything.

You,
opening the jar--
it only takes a knowing look from you, a word,
and I pour my will inside your jar where you lock it up,
the chaste promise, the man who offers you his strengths
in order to trust you with his weaknesses.

There is something that feels like a finger playing on skin
in the airs that connect me fully, yearningly, with you,
the one longed for--deep longing--embodied in the flesh,
turgid, warm to touch,
the elemental ode you etch in my thigh so I want never to resist
the lure of your own pale and perfect skin,
the scent of you in the rooms of memory,
my world,
my will inside your jar,
always kept, and always kept wanting.