I find you empty
broken in places--
chipped, worn through and faded
where the same sore spots,
rubbed too hard and too often,
finally ripped.
I find you crumbling,
raw corners
polished in the front, where They
can show you off to company:
See our little Hero? yes,
a perfect gentleman, perfect trophy.
Saves the world once or twice a year
and a kitten or two for good measure,
defends the (poor weak) wizards who
gather in his wake, and then
a dive, spectacular, an OOH! and AH! and
look, he's caught the Snitch (again) and then
when They are through,
impressive's over, tidy up the teacups and send you back
to half a grapefruit and a shirt that doesn't fit.
(Tell me, Harry, did it speak to you,
that fluttering gold thing, clutched in desperate fingers,
tell me did you ever want to let it free?)
I saw that shirt hang off you,
you with yr torn jeans and broken specs
(again, Harry? she wonders. I just said
oculus reparo before you left, what is it
you do to them? and you shrugged and said
don't know, Herm, just happens sometimes,
and wouldn't look her in the eye.)
I saw you, a child playing dress-up in a hero's cloak,
the only thunderbolt you have to throw is engraved in your skull
and remains stubbornly attached.
And I all decked in my black robes and horns,
set to play the devil for you,
found the field too unmatched--I knew
I can't do this anymore.
I find you empty,
exhausted, poured through (drained pores)
yet still I keep drinking,
and still you never run dry.
I take yr rough corners and jagged edges,
the scratches in yr skin and the cracks in yr eyes,
i take yr hungry kisses and fumbling hands,
the salt in yr skin and the way
yr eyelids flutter closed
i have nothing of my own to give you,
not til i have drunk in so much of you
that yr breath replaces mine
--and then all i am is Yours anyway--
i tried to fill you, Harry,
but still i find you empty,
because i've taken all i can of you.
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