~ triptych ~

He looks away from her when she

comes, then glances back, greeting her hesitation,

writing in the margins of their stillness. Not moving towards

each other, letting nearness sink

between. His hands

are occupied, so his eyes touch

her, once, before parting again, turning back

to the game, (to the rest of the evening). His casual gestures into which

her face dissolves when she looks at him.

~

I have failed to document all

my blood has written – allowing desire to blush

back into silence, giving hands permission to swallow

lips with their inarticulate hunger. Not for the squeamish,

this feeding of reckless, naked longing

to language, snarling and circling in her grammatical

cage. And your body persists giving in

to the gathering shadow of his heartbeat

around you, to the wind gusting against your eyes, scattering

night, his fingers sliding deeper,

~

“being with you is almost like being

alone, because you are so quiet,” so willing

to let music be the conversation, beyond

language, the only place he touches me, fire burning at the foot

of the ladder, burning us both. His smile is not for me,

but around me. Gestural desire, no more

than eyes meeting, hands brushing across

and through (as we travel a road

in flat, mapless country) the heart, where I leaned

close enough to fold artery over bone, pulse shaking us until

we let go. And all of this given

no time, holding no moment – not engraved

on the mind, but scratched into

the skin, with fingernails, or the tip of a pencil. Stroke

and breath, which together

amount to no sense – loose details, a sketch

of an impression of love.