A Cloudy June Sunrise

I had been awake
since rain fell against the window:
exciting the glass

but not disturbing your sleep.
Instead, you woke to the alarm and found me
revising my thoughts on humanity,

our frailty and guts.

You asked if I was okay,
if I needed anything while you were out,
and I answered, "Just some sleep."

Unconvinced, dressing hastily,
you promised to come home earlier than you had
any other day that week.

"I just want you to know
you can bother me with those obsessions
that make you feel evil

or at least a little fucked up,"
you said before leaving, though I can't blame you
for assuming my pessimism.

It is, after all, the disease I came fitted with,
as well as my tongue of choice
when problems convolute,

but that morning
the sky was so beautiful,
and what I needed to tell you was this:

I offer my poetry
as a blatant exhibition of trust
for you, for your curiosity,

because I didn't believe any man
had inherent goodness
until I met you.