Flows

You are lovely like the sheets I
pull over my shoulder in the last minutes of sleep.
You are cool as night sand.
Skin illuminated like a painting,
like a moonlit snowcap.
Eyes hung as heavy as sap falls.
Voice kind and warm like the kind that rolls down branches.
And my hand becomes that tree.

You are lovely like the pitch black horizon.
That I can’t see that I can’t see.
You are the breeze that tinkles windchimes
and you are a stranger and a lover and my soul’s voice all at once.

I am yours if one can belong in such a way.
The way I belong wrapped up in you,
lips to collar bone, brow to ear.
I am yours in the way the sun is the moon’s.
Not of the same orbit but it is your light that brings me to sight.

I am brother only to stone and soil,
you constructed of metals more than meat.
You, dreadfully unmagnetized.
Me, compass. [Of a ship, as – with directions – one never stays.]

I am all arctic before I am dust and cactus but
I live now in such a way that shelter needs no excuse,
beds hardly enticing. Sleep, earned.

You are lovely like coordinates of our histories.
The view above our bed when my body feels much more like a bottle
washed up on store, filled only with a scream
Of our pains forehead to forehead.
As our stories are the smiling lips that just barely touch.
is still treated by milky silver of the most beautiful light pollution.

Light that turns us all into the river.
That I may now flood you.
That I am the river only when it is the flood.

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