That One Man

I want to be with the man who loved me for being whole, a free spirit flung from the top of a mountain like last winters white out blizzard. The man sits drunk in his living room, paralyzed in disbelief that his mother last sat on that black leather couch, before I came and his spirit told him that he knew my soul, he was a casual friend of that unbending security guard that held watch over my taped together heart, its secrets exposed after his third bottle of homemade red wine, that dribbled down his throat like a miniature river of blood coating a liver that sat like a putrid sponge inside him. Praying that he would depart too numb for pain. And we slept like shadows of the children we were long ago, in the sweat of New Jersey's choking midsummer, our souls sliding down that slope together, on a red wooden sled, innocence lost, and our last lifetime clear as ice.