as some loving caresses must be,
the familiar length of a body
fragmented between worlds,
cradled and warm in the dark.
I think this is when you
are the most beautiful,
never entirely still,
motionless would be
far too much to bear.
You never respond to that touch,
nor are you ever meant to,
it is not a step in the usual dance
where one of us gradually summons
the other away from sleep for more.
My hand is only meant to be
the elusive spirit in dreams
where you are far away for now,
my silence can coat the air,
my palm can be the earth
you walk so safely along.
The touch is soft and continuous
as I trace places I’ve called home,
all specific ones between curves,
between pores and ridges
that have no true name,
that are not constrained
by geometry’s measures.
I cannot think in angles,
numbers or drawn lines here,
nor do I ever want to
Because this is when you
are the most beautiful
When I touch this familiar shape
and realize that you are
still indeed a labyrinth,
a body and heart meant
to be patiently navigated.
My hand is almost intangible,
a phantom untouched by
the streetlamp’s gentle halos
glowing through the curtains,
it is meant to be that way now,
invisible to all but sleeping skin
Fragmented between worlds,
cradled and warm in this bed,
It is not the usual slow rhythm
that escalates into a storm
the both of us must quell,
I must be gentle here
to continue this dance.
Even the pressure of a kiss may
summon you back from dreams,
so I just keep caressing the places
that I’ve come to call a home,
all specific ones that have come
to teach me the beauty in restraint,
the way to measure what angles
are so very shapeless in our hearts.
The touch is so soft right now
as some loving caresses must be,
tracing our names along the warm
familiar length of your body,
cradled and safe in this bed
I believe this is when you
are the most beautiful.
