Biding

You still refuse  
to wear dresses  
remaining sensible to the last  
the lilac in your eyes    
waiting its turn to shine  
 
I would push you,    
if I knew how  
back where you belong    
to the mainstream,    
where lovers drown    
in wonders of their own making  
while the world watches,    
open mouthed  
routines crumbling    
to the craziness of alive  
 
I have calculated,  
that a person who shrinks    
apace with their own scars  
emerges eventually    
with nothing    
on the other side of a broken heart  
 
And so your choices  
are courage    
coursing in heady blood  
or death's empty hand  
and her coldest healing touch