I promise to only run my hands
along the length of your body, just for a moment.
I will gather all the memorable parts of you
the first time,
so I don’t waste the grace you’ve given me.

I will let my hands explore
the best of you—
so that when I’m asked
how I imagine the universe was created,
I can mold a lump of clay
into the mountains and valleys
your hips draw from.

I’ll sketch the bareness of your flesh
as it was in the light—
soft, springy,
yielding beneath my touch.

And now,
I will speak acceptance
into the space between us,
for the thought of never touching you again
is a promise I must keep.