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When I watch Jim Caviezel running around
Kneecapping people on Person of Interest.
When he stares solemnly into the middle distance with
His eyes of ice blue, lost in the ache of memory,
I, too, stare solemnly into the brushed steel of his hair,
So dignified and begging for a free hand to run fingers
Through those soft, dark strands;
And when he quirks his mouth in a rare show of pleasure,
Eyes flickering towards Michael Emerson,
Basking in the blue glow of his
Computer array, I think,
“Kiss him already!” But they don’t. Not yet. Not in front of the cameras.
They approach each other sideways
And they speak of the deep meaning of loss and of
Dying together, entwined
In their mission. They only smile
When the other is around, sharing that secret
Flicker of twilight
Behind full moon frames and the washed out blue of sapphires.
When you’ve been alone for so long, the brush of a hand
Accidentally, as yours hovers over a keyboard, and his reaches
For a glass of water; a breath
Against your shoulder—bared as he patches up
Yet another bullet wound—
Feels like an embrace, feels like
You’re finally connecting, and I think, “Jesus would kiss him.”
And he would, long and deep and forever,
Because, of all people, he knows, the time we have together is
Short and not to be wasted playing tricks
On the tip of a knife edge, when there is a bed
That could cradle us.