I can still hear her in the dark,
breath and heartbeat as soft
thunder from a distant storm,
a raw memory of perfume and hair,
the tiny yet infinite harbor
pulsing between her thighs
that I’m still somewhere enfolded in.
Out of the body, into the ether,
to make it more than matter,
more than just our skin.
And that’s when I trace places
where I swear I see names
as she still sleeps spooned in our cocoon
where it can never hurt and I’d place her hand
over there now to show where it once broke.
I wouldn’t know how to ask.
I wouldn’t want to make her run.
Even though I can say some words,
that I know where I belong now.
I hope that’s not too much to say.
I knew it in her car that first night,
an entire winter storm in the air
pushing through clothes, hair and bones
but there’s just heat and lights between us.
And I could trace those places above
where unknowable glows torch heavens
or the streetlamps lighting her way
and how when my hand finally reaches
and instead discovers her skin
it’s lightning dancing now
against and between fingertips.
Her eyes tell me to tread carefully,
that there’s no going back,
to move through her like I don’t just mean it
but may never know the feel once again,
to know the aches and ghosts churning
and the secrets reeling together within,
let it crush you and become you,
make it mean more than just skin.
I’ll feel it later in the dark,
the tiny yet infinite harbor where
I’m pulsing between wrapped thighs,
a raw memory of something exchanged
that I’m still somewhere enfolded in.
And that’s when I trace those places
that look and feel like lifelines to me
and chart the warm rivers cocooned beneath
but may be nothing more than palm prints to her
that don’t yet deserve to be anyone’s map.
Out of the body, into the ether,
where matter is more than skin
but tells me where I belong.
I’d place her hand there to show
where it always used to hurt,
but I want her asleep and safe.
I wouldn’t know how to ask.
I wouldn’t want to make her run.
