Where?

I love to count the roses in your eyes
as you trace the stars on my back 
and the roadmaps on my wrists 
and use them as constellations.

You are like an ancient sailor who 
has no certainty of what if he will find
and no assurance that he will find anything 
that he will amount to anything but still 
you sail on
through the harsh waters of my harsh stare
still you sail on 
through the too-calm water of my fears 
that get you nowhere
still you sail on 
in the most hopeless of nights when 
the winds of my past are whipping at your face
and the darkness of my night’s demons envelop you 
and you cannot see the lighthouse of which 
you are supposed to land and the heavens 
are whispering “give up, give in, go home, be safe.” 

You sail on until morning in the hopes 
that you will awake to a new discovery, 
that you will wake up and my gates 
will be open and your boat can pass through. 
I hate myself for only waking you up 
with a soft kiss and a coffee and 
I hate myself for not being so 
tropically complete as the other islands 
which you have found and you have loved, 
but I can wake you up with a fiercer love 
a greater love
and perhaps that is the boat 
on which you sail.