I want to know about the spaces between our bodies
when we stand next to each other--
the air that mixes with breath and glances,
the tensions that carry over from
your side to my arm
where it clutches my chest tighter,
shifting and growing in distance.


Is there a distillery for that content? Can we
bottle it up, pour it around ourselves when we need some room,
scoop it back up when we're done?
I found a pocket of the stuff where our hands met the other day,
and where my ribcage 
didn't fit quite perfectly into yours when we embraced,
our bones lying on top of each other, creating little channels for the substance to
funnel through.
Should I have tried to save it,
or slid each curve into place?
Does it feel warm to the touch, charged by light and temperaments,
or is it an incalculable negative space?

I read a chapter of your book,
made some notes in the margins,
left strands of my hair to mark the pages
where I appeared.

I sip the words like holy water,
drunkenly compose letters
on scraps of paper I keep hidden under my bed
in a box labeled "revisit"
--and I do, over, and over, and often.

Sometimes I pick up my pen and
set it down again,
suddenly lost in a conversation,
a spilled coffee,
the smell of burnt cloves
on your fingers and your mouth.

I know how it ends,
still torn over wanting to be a recurring character and not just a
filler scene.
Tonight,
I'll content myself with being a memorable subplot
written into a salty-sweet dream.

Maybe I dream too hard, and why I wake up exhausted

In the nighttime I slip out
of my skin
to go dancing with other skeletons,
my bones a lovely pearl,
our fire opalescent.
We dance on rooftops and in parking lots,
under silver moons,
like visions
rattling and rolling--
it's almost obscene.
Darling,
come dance with me.

Bring your left feet
and we'll find you a right pair
with ivory inlay and
jazz in the marrow.
Join our congregation,
this is our nightly sole-prayer to
soothe the flames that consume our souls during the day.
We clatter-clatter and
heal the cracks--you'll see.
Come and dance with me, darling,
on the balance beam of a dream.
Before the sun seals us up again,
before we break wide open.

I stumble through a spiderweb,

memories sticky and spun beautifully.

What can I do when

every thought is of you

and what could have been?
 

I make my rounds down the hours and up again,
a quarter past ten we stopped by the woods, talked about the future,

at one-thirty we shared a meal,

at six we shared your bed,
spoke in tongues

with our clothes on and our souls half-dressed as we grasped at flesh,

my novice hands spinning a tapestry imminently shred.

Time has slowed,

it loops in geometric angles

around my head.

I've learned to tiptoe,

tread lightly around the edge in search of escape.

We were a work of art, dear,
spun with a skein that emptied too abruptly,
but why ruin a precious, temporal thing?
Now, I let our web collect dewdrops and shimmer like silver threads in the morning sun;
then one day it will be gone,

it's memory a perfect imprint in the corner of my smile,
remembered
between my fingers and my touch.