Remember that all you see cannot be trusted, that entire spectrums exist beyond sight. That the cost of this moment is the value you assign to the imprint of the stray curl pressed damp against your forehead as you arch upward to find his mouth with your own. Accept the risk of that quickening, that he will always step out of frame.
Your blood chased his fingerprints for mile
after unmapped mile: suprasternal notch, scapula,
Devil’s Tower. His every absent touch finds you
because you extend the subtle invitation of proximity,
the path well-worn though unclaimed.
The walls, once blue, greyed to some tone between fog
and melancholy, coated with the dust of a generation or two.
Tongue and groove. Portraits in sepia tacked to the edge
of a mirror. Cotton-covered pillows thin beneath our faces.
Sand ground between our souls. In that room you now love her.
My memory vague as a dream. One of you is on your knees.