don’t touch me or you’ll break
this soft tendril of reality
that binds me here to you.
i wasn’t like this before,
back when you didn’t exist
(or was I the one that came after?
i can never tell, sometimes.)
i wasn’t meant to love you like this:
like waves crashing hard
against the golden shore.
if you were sky, I’d be Atlantic,
holding tight to the mainland
then pulling back into myself.
and yet, far in the distance
still coming closer
we meet best in this horizon
where skin is barrier to bone, sinew,
flesh that keeps us here and apart.
dream catcher, sun weaver,
where are you now, if not here?
Stay. push me
onto the expanse of these clouds
and release my name into the wind
as if you’re praying for something
(though we both know you don’t believe.)
don’t touch me hard,
if soft suffices.
let me be the water that parts your lips
when you are parched.
the one that crawls between your toes
rich in salt, and sighs, and tears.
let me slip
between the nooks of your body,
where you fold and unfold yourself for no one else.
I want to see you.
those parts you deemed unworthy
of love are the best of all.
don’t scream my name,
if you can whisper.
sigh it deep into the pillow
on these cold pearlescent mornings
where the fog clings to your face.
that vapor — it will be me
saluting the soft terrain of your lips,
then disappearing once more
into the expanse of your skin.