Saturday, October 10, 2009

wishbone

I hold you so close my shape blocks out the shine of the night. I hold you so tight I loose your bones from their moorings. All passion comes to the same end, that dash of danger floating upon several shots of comfort. The deserving collusion and the mistaken feeling that everyone has one. The warmth of your throat pressed snug against my mouth. The surety of your teeth at least, if not a smile. Every motion taken as a sign. Every light mistook for a star.

This is the light that survives in your eyes, the dose of miracle amid all this splendid squalor. This is the letter tucked into your pocket while you dozed, the sound of the television swaying like the tide, pushing dreams between your lips. Names written quickly, enclosed in heart-shaped ink. Names whispered dearly, as though no one had heard them before. The likeness to waking, and to dreaming, and to owning both inside the song of your startled heart. That the poem was ever written, then given away, a stone skipped across the moonlit waters. Something once was, sinking into the icy depths.

It draws your touch like a fresh tattoo, embroidered flesh with languid perpetrations of mortal art, hot and cool and stinging like something new to the notice of the hungry world. It lays upon your skin and with-in your drapings, carnal and owned and forever with you. Words you spoke, words you couldn't say. Warm breath dissolving into bandwidth and condensation as the flailing winds descended. A constellation viewed in tandem, a shared joke, a notion torn from the depths of that timeless moment that held us close with all the stars swaddled within us. The distant music of passing traffic, dawn somewhere lost in the tangle of woods and hills, something to worry the stone and sink the shadows. Stitches shorn loose before the wounds had healed, a grasping that will linger between us, lost upon these sheered off continents of time.

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