Will you sleep with me?
Nothing I compare you to
makes a difference.
What does is like the sky, glorious
and inquiet even after years
of silence spent breathing
your name into the cold
hollows of my hands, imagining
what it would've been like
to have you enter
my body. You see - had I known passion needed
to be mined, dug out
of the flesh, like some precious ore
made up of a million deaths
complex as snow
glittering from its many jags,
I would have known it wasn't right
or wrong not to fuck
when it surfaced in me that day
in the woods, breaking skin
between the question
that was briefly mine, and your
answer scarred
beyond recognition in that hard
space between face and sun
that, like a tender sky in winter, simply
is and nothing more.
