twenty-six days into
the year, while i was
still, as yet, beset
by that december midnight,
but you,
you helped me forget.

i owe you more
than i can count, a
priceless debt;
you gave me such
a gift, the euphoria
called forelsket.

heat on a heartstring
plucked with
a slick fingertip,
wait for the beat --
syncopated, they tap
calluses on her soft skin.
she likes it, though.

it feels good, though;
rough and ragged
(the breathing, i mean),
different and new
a swooping stomach thrill
after the silk lining of being
a daughter.

i'm sure it's a long haul,
that's what this means.
the whispered drawl
and a quiet kind of love:
tacit.

cast and crew
numbering a humble two
bow at scene's end,
you've made it, you've made it.
both given the performance
neither will
omit.

masterful, we may not yet be
but I press my
fingertips, warm-smooth
to your skin, the curves and
the planes
anyways, because
i like the way you are.  i'm fond
of your stained-glass eyes, and
your blood-soaked cheeks.
i try this new thing, anyways
because i like it even
though i cannot quite get this
new thing, this foreign
dance routine
correct.

jigsaw souls interlock like
the way they meant,
each inhale and exhale
breathing evening in,
and each drumbeat of my pulse
sending my blood flying
faster under my skin.
lightning rod love, you're
a thunderclap
away
from a hurricane,
please tell me you
can feel
the ringing in my ears
the shaking of our earths; because
i can feel the electricity
in my nerve endings
sing, high and thin.

heat and wonder on your
breath, i just felt it
on my cheek;
when my limbs go weak i turn
my head and tell you
"i love you", another turn
of events, another
manifestation
and declaration
of the stirrings and rumblings
inside my chest.

daylight is
all that i see
it is;
it is the curtains lit
from behind, by the
sunlight, bright
in my eye and in yours, too
bright between the palms of
our hands, and
it is the way everything is sharp
and the way i can consciously inhale and
the way i can
think, clearer.
clear as ice water in
your throat, clearer,
even,
clearer even than that peal of cold.

nighttime is
all that i feel
it is;
it is all i can discern
just by the searching, the pressing
of my fingertips, to
the shapes of what is
around me;
it is the way i feel
the beat, the baseline and rhythm
the syncopation of
your heart;
and it is the way i can be and
the way you are
here, nearer.
when you're a silhouette,
i can see you,
clearer.