My flesh takes on other flesh and tries to see
what colors two bodies can make.

Blues and greens. Oranges. All the colors
of volcano rain.

When my mouth forgets how to language, I sentence
with my hands. I curve my body just so, knowing that
you’re staring at my neck, knowing so well how people love
to lose themselves in skin.

This morning I woke after dreaming of train tracks covered in
yellow flowers, looked at the man sleeping beside me, and left
my bed to count the ways that you can leave your soul through
touch.

There is a tenderness in closing your eyes and seeing
explosions, in the fact that we loved each other for so long without
touching, in the fact that there is such a thing as souls brushing
underneath the table instead of this: the night, josie’s bar,
your beautiful hand crawling too high up my thigh.

When I close my eyes I see light. When I open them,
I see men and women in their black coats, walking dreamily
and dreamlessly, closing their eyes through the traffic
and writing dirty poems on used napkins.

Drills press themselves into the flesh of concrete. Tires
pull at gravel. On windy days, even the buildings move their hips
and hope love will come of it; but

when I talk about our flesh, I don’t mean this flesh. I don’t mean
muscles or Château-Briand or you fucking me underneath the
blankets. I don’t mean bones. I don’t mean skin. I don’t
mean any of that new-aged bullshit.

All I want is to be held, softly, by your gaze. All I want is
for my words to be touched, gently, as if you never wanted to read
anyone else’s words
again.