You are at once the severity of the wound and the precision of the stitches, your love the only thing preserving this vapid flesh, the crawl of even the worn and wingless towards that perfect light. This steady drift of intermittence, the flicker of the one light that seems real. I gaze and gaze, craving something other than feeling. The kiss as a connection to this scant permanence. The kiss that lingers with-in our trembling limbs.
You reenforce all my restless habits, linger where there would be touch. You sparkle when the light can find you, you glow in the darkest moments as if lit from with-in. The red ribbons that tour and tangle through your limbs, the breath and clasp of your blood reaching for me. You are the eyes that fix, the hands that wander. You are the antidote to the desolation of waking, you are the fecund sustenance of my every dream.
You are the bloom in each flower, the ardor that seethes in every love letter's ink. The promise of a rich harvest in any season, the fields tamed while the woods grow wild. The pleasures of the table, the appetites of the bed. The flesh blessed with a sheen of sweat, glistening tiny diamonds as you flex and reach. I feel the breeze drift across my ashes, cooling my brow, clearing my eyes. Three thousand miles away, you are still skin and bone and flavor. The impression left casts its spell over the senses, you linger on my tongue and lips. I kiss each comfort, I kiss each craving. Your absence just the penalty that being bathed in your blessing incurs.