Poem: Knightley

There is an art
in the way his hands
smooth down a chair’s back.
The way he speaks and pauses

to formulate,
to oscillate,
to deteriorate.

The way his being admonishes me of home;
how his palms press the chair’s spine,
like the ridge of the valley mountains.

His honesty and revelations
are unclouded
just before he sleeps.

His earnestness
makes me want to pray;
not for him to be perfect,
but the selfish prayer to have him for myself,
before the world gets to him first.

That comes with the pain of knowing
that that isn’t what praying is for–
and the admiration
of his vigor
and resolution
to love.