Hidden in Plain View

I love watching you get dressed in the morning
(in a bittersweet sort of way).
Of course I prefer to undress you,
but this is a thrill just the same.

You slip into those baggy jodhpurs;
I gleefully imagine how much you'd swim in mine.
As I stand behind you at the mirror,
I see it reflect your joy and pride.

Brightest scarlet enshrouds you - 
the color of the heart - or blood when it hits the air.
I suddenly remember how my soul cried
when I approached the coffin and saw you lying there.

I had rushed in; both of us did,
when we heard the rumored news.
She stepped back, grief unspoken but still expressed;
but I didn't notice her, all my thoughts were focused on you.

I sobbed brokenly, looking the fool as usual;
for once I was free to show all, to reveal - 
yet everyone remained oblivious to the reality of my pain
and saw nothing of the extent of what we feel.

Now I'm just standing here watching you,
smiling as you adjust your lanyard, then turn to fix mine.
My heart leaps into my throat, your fingers touch my cheek - 
I may be an oddity, but you are truly one of a kind.

Thinking back again to your feigned death,
and thinking this moment how lucky I am,
the tears start to roll down my face,
but you halt them like no one else can:

A thumb to my throat, stroking the pulse,
your lips, sweet fire, suckling the salt from my eyes;
tongue tracing lines all over my face,
and a mouth that spirits away my stifled cries.

Two big men in red, clinging to each other
and to the hope that someday we can do so in public places
without getting hit with muck and hate and bigotry - 
without feeling the need to hide our faces.

Right now these uniforms are binding;
they hold us to our acting here,
so that no matter what part they choose to bind,
we will always feel the fear.

It's time to leave now, time to go to work;
time for another day of "Let's Pretend,"
in which I am not your lover and you not my love,
on days that never seem to end.

Give me one last kiss before you go,
before I yield to the clown this charade makes me become,
and keep my kiss in return as a reminder,
that, to your beauty and passion, I am only *playing* dumb.

- end -