You will not reveal. No matter how gentle, hard, i push, coax

I am met with firm refusal. I tell you, I will give you mine, if....

I tell you, Heleine; you write, “how pretty”.

Still yours a secret. You tell me, I never promised.

Yours remains a name sandwiched between first and last, nom, prenom, protected on all sides.

A name given in baptism, some other holy rite?

A thing of which you are ashamed, agnostic, no association.

Or is it simply that you tease, enjoy the bleet of my pleading,

pink-cheeked and shy. The upper-hand you enjoy.

Something prevents the telling.

You are chock full of aphasias, white blanks.

Such syllables - they slip through your fingers,

each a star a hole in a velvet-rich cloth.

through which the light seeps out and we are left in the dark - torchless

The gentle push; the  fast retreat.

I am lost on this path – you always were two steps ahead.

It is as if in telling me this detail, you would lose a piece of yourself.

Once you did not hide, signing letters e.e.; a cummings affectation,

name still concealed hidden behind the blanket of some other’s.

A trick, of lowercase and of shyness.

I try, spin straw into gold, some alchemic reaction impossible.

It is Rumplestiltskin who saves her from certain death…

wanting her necklace, her rings, fair exchanges for spun gold.

But when i run out of exchanges what then, love? 

You write, Guess, You have 3 days. You write Rumplestiltskin

Three days before it came, reaction alchemic as I slept,

& all the elements fell into place and I called you out loud,

as it flowed off my tongue to the night.

I shouted Ephraim, Elijah, Elias...,

until I landed on yours and I knew that it was right.

Somewhere in the night, you toss and turn,  self dividied.

You look to the East River. Hear an echo.

Feel the self pulled in such polar opposites.

Yes, you, but split in two.

A man of two minds...

You ask, Who am i?

I tell you, you are You.

Mercurial, protean, glimmering in the changing light of summer.