these things are earned

you can partially open
your book of time
you can regale, recount
but you cannot make anyone
hear the in between stories of you

you can embrace and inhale
the perfume of a beard
you can long for that heartbeat
below the right ear
but you cannot coerce trust
it’s scaffolding is gold
and must hold of its own

you can bathe in the joy of everyday things
in the very now
but you cannot extract unbridled laughter
from a lavastone heart
before it has cooled enough
one day, greyed
punched through with fresh air
and trailing home
light as light