This is the hour, the hour of ceremony,
the culmination of all things done to me.
This is the moment that I make your gloss skin a tableau,
with permanent inks, just for amusement though.
This is the moment of grammar school glue, ceremony,
no leftover refuse, ceremony–
choosing, not to divide, we fuse.

The thin wall neighbors will lose, if you choose
to scream naturally with laughter.
I’ll hang my critique from the rafters.

This is the lilac hour; I refuse to call it twilight,
and I’ll smile despite certain sensitivities,
for this is the night that you won’t drop
your graffitied hand away from me.
This is the wane of will pitted against will,
the time of hands entwined on lacquered sills.

This is the still, still silence of treat,
the retreat of my impending tears.
This is the hour of uncertified matrimony,
of the lilac-lacquered altar
and its acceptance ceremony.


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