I like to imagine–and I have imagined in both sunlight
and alone in darkness–you alone with your thoughts of
me; how the wind may be outside your window, how
the sweat is caught in your hair: I imagine you have turned
off the light and your eyes have closed and you remember
both my smile as well as the warmth of the flush of your
face as you smile at my approaching and you may even
question that flush as something real; it is.
I wonder at the spiderwebs of your fingers, the way they
travel up your leg–I have seen the outside of your leg but
not the inside and I wonder if the smoothness
continues to its inside: a shape of milk and marble–or how
your hands get caught in the tangle of your hair, or your
shoulder like glass pulling against the sheets, or the small dip of your
hip filling with all of the promises in the room only to
release them in your last, majestic cry.
Standing with you as we part ways, almost swaying
towards each other and away at once, standing and
waiting for what should be an embrace but never will
be, your smile breaking acute across your face, how it
turns up and almost bowls you over and holds tight onto
your cheeks and the sound of laughter delicate and caught
in your own uncertainty of your body’s reaction to me.
Kiss me in your mind and find me in your skin
with your fingers, and with your mind interrupt the trepidations
gathering in your mind as nothing more than an energetic
reminder of everything you already have.