At Your Doorstep

Am I damned to be the neutered suitor
praying at your doorstep,
whispering shallow promises to a shallower shadow
that would encourage me to keep whispering
and waiting, wallowing really, at your doorstep?

Do I have to die every time my glance
is caught in your eyes, and why does my chest
buckle when I turn unamusing text
into a chance to mourn over memories
that I've not created? I save my self from
saucy intrusions by other, delicate wretches
while quietly and awkwardly lighting a candle
at mass for me, for you, and for chance.

I might hearken Gabriel if I knew him willing
to slit my throat and stop this pathetic letting-out.
I'll die crucified if you would just tell me my sins.
But I'll go on grinding dust out of my knees
at your mosaic concrete doorsteps until then.