Through walls and windows,
Thin orange curtains.
Through a bike ride's worth of distance,
Through the first rains
Of the winter that you thought might never come?
(Everything is mutated, after all.)
Can you ever
sitting alone on a cold bed
Feel their breath
On your shoulder,
The pads of their fingers
On your scalp,
Their tortoise shell, a buffer,
So safe, so necessary
(Always palpable)
Cracking slowly
At the hands of their undeniable longing?
Can you listen carefully, hone in
On the voices that come from the crown of their body,
Brain.
Or lower,
Root chakra
Trying desperately to convince the heartcenter
That this is not love
That you are not in fact there,
Just beyond the moat
Sitting cross-legged in a sunny patch of grass
Entirely entertained.
Completely self-contained.
Patient.
Can you hear that voice?
And the guttural baritone beneath it
(Fighting to be noticed amidst costumed and powdered spotlit sopranos)
That solemnly, simply sings the truth
About the way your hands just fit together
And that entangled, together,
You wordlessly look in the same direction
And laugh at all the same things
And cry at all the same things
Without explaining.
Can you ever feel that love?
A pilot light
Too distant
Too untended
To bring any warmth.
And yet,
Fire.
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