Coming Home

He hides from the world,
protecting himself from the
scalding notes of the sun.
He will be home soon,
a spackle of stars outside
the scorched window,
and you will wrap him in
the dim light of your fingertips.

You uncloak his misery,
lift his veil of fire and
hide it on a shelf out of reach.
His face is known only to you,
weeping and stripped bare.
Your voice is a whisper only
he can hear and hold tightly
to quell the calamity in his chest.

His head rests quietly
in your hands,
cradled in the few
still hours of darkness.
You drink the nectar
of each other’s silence,
until he rises and leaves again,
wrapped in a cloth of despair and secrets.