Cusp

I wanted to know the electricity shooting, 
the bolts through the flesh containing you, 
the limbs that slowly dance in my presence, 
where my fingertips are vague upon you at first.

Hesitant passengers traveling along you, 
on the cusp of a new language, 
picking up the native tongue when your neck cranes, 
welcomes me to cross one border after another.

The ferocity and speed with which 
you grew so close to me trembled, 
tensed through these bones, 
you filling the narrow as if it was formed 
to be hollow and waiting for this joining.

I’ll want to know the cold obscured vacuum 
made after you’ve been pulled away, 
the clamoring flesh racing to contain 
the finite and malleable moment shared.

The vague shapes made from there 
are visceral renderings I cannot
capture in the same way again.

They will be mythologies, 
primal bursts echoing in all I do, 
eluding the cusp of a language 
perhaps no being is meant to truly know.