Just the taste of your skin,
like steam rising from a raging river,
it’s a heart helplessly on fire,
the sound of a star roaring
through a still night sky.
Whatever passes through here,
I can promise this,
you have woven all
seasons into me.
Your delicate fingers once drew
maps in all possible directions.
The image of such a touch alone
is more immediate and visceral
than any poetry we can write.
It’s what I keep with me now,
a lone fingertip hushing my lips
to keep me from spilling,
a gift I can hold on to
in place of what can
no longer be given.
Something passed through me then,
the tracks that we made signaled
a code unbroken and held
where I cannot let go.
It’s such an ordinary, human thing,
to feel such a crushing loss.
Just the scent of your hair and skin,
floral fields and warm coconut trees,
perfume rising from open ambrosia,
it’s the heart helplessly on fire,
the sound of a star roaring
through my dark skies.
Whatever passes through there,
I can promise this,
you have woven all
worlds into me.
Your delicate lips grazed every map
that was once a cold valley in me.
The image of such a touch alone
imparts something more tender and visceral
than any tongue can attempt to shape.
It’s what I carry with me now,
the initially tentative meeting of lips,
so softly joining and pressing
to keep me from spilling,
a gift I can still taste now in place
of what can no longer be given,
of what was so suddenly taken away.
Something passed through me then,
the marks we made signaled
a code I once broke,
clasped to where I cannot let go.
Just a taste of all you are
is more immediate and visceral
than any poem I will ever write.
It’s what I always hold now.
It’s such an ordinary, human thing,
to feel such an incalculable loss.
