of that night
what i remember:
the warmth of your chest
and your heartbeat.
temporal dimensions bent
hanging off the rungs of your rib cage
and the desperation of your hands
The night, a few minutes nestled in the darkness of the moon room, the glass walls and the machinery hidden under drapes. the draped, curtained quiet. just my voice, just your breathing. i tiptoed around your furniture and you followed me slowly, the floor memorized, the air heavy.
i've wondered, often with awe, how we survive our shared silence about the things that matter, that should hold meaning but are shrugged off as if not speaking them will rub them out of history. that night, like this night, never happened.
the moon room with its gathering walls stealing yellow-orange light from the hallway, light falling on your shoulders like dew. small paws kneading air, stretching underneath idle benches, curling for warmth. sprinkles of dust illuminated by borrowed fluorescence; the exact distance between you and i measured in breaths--in truth, all i remember is your immediate reality.
in the darkness, my arms outstretched and palms opened in anticipation of collision. a misstep, loose footing, or simply gravity exerting its god-like force on a prostrate body. i like to think i fell into you and it's something like the toe of your shoe catching on a loose brick where at first it's a rush of blood before the spreading pain like warm water.
before you get up and realize that the ground broke skin, there is a certainty, a reality; i feel this therefore i am here. the vacuum of your embrace was a space where nothing else existed, time folds in on itself, crumples. it was doubtless and full and the only thing you have ever given me that i am sure of--the pain of this will come later.
how do i say that you are my blue and purple knees and the dirt that they kiss.
