your skin smells like damp cedar wood, fallen in a forest,
and I know the answer to that age old question;
when a tree falls in the woods, it makes a noise and
it’s the sound of my insides crashing in on themselves,
fearing these moments cannot be pasted into my memory
like a scrapbook with designed paper and glittery stickers,
reminding me beauty always remains despite the ugly.
I’ll stamp flowers and sprinkle crushed pinecones
inside the books you have bought me. They are tiny pieces
of you. It’s a small reminder of you.
And when your brow furrows in dream, it appears as if
all your responsibilities and finite time have crept over your skin,
reminding you that our love is no match for time.
When we least expect it, when we least desire it, there will be an end
to us. In the creases of your worries are clusters of freckles
like baby constellations overlooked by our greatest astronomers.
I see landscapes, animals, and I see gods playing there,
singing and dancing there, underneath my fingertips while I attempt
to draw the curvature of your face in the air.
We do not have much money. We have none at all, and though
your pockets are empty and there are holes in mine, I still create
from what little I have. Your aura and my finger will have to do.
I hope you don’t mind that I kiss the line of your spine or
bite the rounded edges of your shoulder blades. Think of them
as love bites – as bookmarks in time where I could not get enough of
you. I’m making my mark, exploring new territories in the morning sun
before high noon. Each turn around a valley, and my senses vibrate
within themselves each time I feel the slow rhythmic sway
and warm pulsations. I feel both lost at sea and miraculously found.
Amazing grace, how sweet is our sound. I feel saved.