I don’t think of
this red line
a globe of countries
and roads and languages
I think of the ice rink
of your eyebrows.
The space between each
spiral, falling from your
head into my hands.
I think of the light
and warmth, of morning
reflecting on the sweep of lashes
that revealed the perfect pair
of caramel eyes.
I think of the gap between each of
your teeth. Tiny, and evident.
I think of my rib cage, zipping up
into yours, as I laid on top of you, and
planted my lips on your chin
and told you I loved you for the 100th time that day.
I think of your eyes looking through my lense, always fondly.
Sometimes methaphorically and sometimes not.
I think of your tongue resting in your smile for mischief.
I think of your fingers, and each hand of different lengths.
I think of your radiated presence in a room of lackluster.
I think of your voice, and the way it travelled through me,
spiking each hair, and raising each follicle, and never
stopping at a goosebump.
I remember the way your heart felt when it was only us and the night;
Just like mine.
In missing him, I felt the continuation of hollowing. I lived in memory. Flipping to each page of our three month tale to find a jump start in inspiration. At times I was surrounded by people and chatter, and I would hit my auto-pilot button, while zooming off into the piece of the past I had collected.
I wanted crawl back into the tapestry of his cotton skin. When I found myself buzzing in the face of anxiety, I flew to the sound of his voice that lived in the center of calm. When the prickle of loneliness crept up and nestled behind my neck, I dove back into the crook of his arms. When I wanted to run to him I did; letting my lids fall, and our chapters race over me as they came.
I can feel your relief
sink into the pit
of my unwanted corridors.
The closing click of a corrosive
exchange in in weary words.
I find myself lost in translation.
You find yourself beneath
what can not be designed.
You fade into me for safe keeping.
Snatched from the tangible.
The creaking corners of our limbs forced to stretch.
Alone we grow.
Together we dream.
I used to think love meant that you had to permanently glued to every physical and internal movement. That separation, was not space it was distance. And now, as I have entered somethingand that in the last year and 3 months has continuously progressed and stood still, gone backwards, and then progressed again, I have learned to let everything I feel slide gently off my arms and run gently down my palms-keeping only the deepest necessities connected at the ends of my fingers-a new distance that keeps each new day entering our holographic future afloat in suspense.