Michalengelo

There are steps somewhere

that saw me fall for you

on that warm summer night

while the ghost of

Michelangelo looked on.

Long dead,

but you brought out something

so alive

in me.

You

were

my

lighthouse,

calling me home

in a strange world

I had never visited,

beaming me toward safety.

There was a little voice inside

somewhere deep,

buried long ago by panic

and consistency.

Maybe it rested in

Michelangelo’s grave?

Wherever it was,

you resurrected it,

cradled it

without even trying.

Her name passed your lips,

and I suddenly understood

Galileo’s urgency

to hide

his daughter’s secrets.

Secrets like hers

and mine,

no good comes

from exposing them

from showing them

the light

of the lighthouse.

And David took my breath away

from that first glance.

Perfection

bred from imperfection.

I stood

still,

awed,

not believing

that I was standing before

a masterpiece.

But as beautiful as

David was,

he was not you.

The Slaves,

they line

the path to David,

and yet the path

to you

was much easier.

I didn’t even have to try

or plan.

One glance

and you became

so important to me

that I immortalized you

with words.

And maybe one day

people will come by

to read these words

as if they were chiseled

on Michelangelo’s grave.

They will not understand,

just like you don’t.

But they will know,

as they slowly walk away,

letting their minds seep

into a past that

never had a future,

that somehow

Michelangelo

helped create masterpieces

even in death.