Fountainhead of love

I lie wide awake and rapt by the art form, dizzied by repose. Your body smooth and unzipped wide open by my roving finger, our intimate moments shared without the burden of language, pasts suspended behind us and we don’t dare honor them. It’s a sacrilege to speak, to spoil the sanctity of the tracing motion. Our attention lives hushed in unison somewhere in ridged fingertips, in sullied navels empty but filled with shared moments of raw disregard. Everything we don’t know doesn’t matter, it gets thrust into void. Truth lies in sensory input, in the gentle whisper of the candle at bedside, in the oil on your glowing skin, in the slow rise and fall of your chest. I remember you from a dream.

It seems I need you to prove my own existence, untangled from you to the fluttering light of the flame, I feel exposed to tragedy, tires peeling past on the concrete outside the window, life exists out there and it is cold, you turn your head and your eyes are easy, reassuring, the stars are aligned, I’m hungry again, to keep this moment packed away, wrapped in little plastic bubbles made of air, slow motion of the will in time performing tricks in my mind, nothing else matters.

I have orange hair and yet I live for you, in this moment I live for you. Perhaps in my next life I’ll be less poetic, more practical, perhaps I’d rather die slowly, alarmingly, and no one will remember me, I see myself in the reflection of your nakedness, I love what I see.