What's in a name?

To me you have many,
like darling, dearest, lover, mine;
by any you are just as sweet.
Your true name must be the thorns, then:
prickly, cold, unwanted,
like the father from which it came.
I say it anyways, tongue
curling carefully around the letters,
as though they might run away from me.
When I do, my mouth fills
with blood from a million scratches;
to me it tastes like honey.
Do I mind the pain? Of
course not--your name
is my favorite sound.
The shape of your name is
a melody that I’ll sing over and over
until my mouth is filled with sugar.

Have you noticed? That our names
each start with the same two letters;
I’m thinking that’s a sign.
You see, I can’t help but think
that your name was made for me,
and I was made to be yours.
“I like your name,” I say,
so please tell me that you
understand what that means.
It means I want you
bleeding and all, that
I know you, and still I love you.
It means I know that the
rose is covered in thorns
and still I reach out to take it.
Don’t you see? I love your name
because it is yours, and every
time I say it I wish it were mine.