The blur between fingers
He buries his face into my hair and inhales.
If I live anywhere in his body,
I live in his lungs. There are better organs
I’m sure, but it’s warm here too,
and most of the sound stays away.
Sometimes in the middle of the night,
I wake up to feel my spine against the wall.
I don’t mean to make this all about bodies
but we are the sort of people whose faith is
Tangibility, and there is little room
for dreamy motions or romantic confessions.
Some mornings, I don’t even stay for coffee.
How do I explain then, the nova in my stomach,
and the bird in my throat who, as time passes,
beats his wings more furiously. I have to keep
my mouth closed to prevent feathers
from bursting out. And oh, what trouble it would be
if a song escaped. What beautiful trouble
it would do to our small little worlds.
