To miss you
is to miss the words
blooming on your stuttering
tongue,
filling the space between us.
Words are our emissaries, giving
sight and sense of touch, drawing
you
to such proximity
that I could smell
the scent of summer on your nape,
on your skin.
To hold you
is to be fulfilled, as satisfied
as one
enjoying a plate of food
after a long spell of hunger,
only that,
I don't devour you, no, I take
pleasure
in the bareness
of everything you stand for
in contrast to myself.
What we do
is merge together, witnesses to
light and darkness
making love in the starlit sky,
likewise witnessed. As such,
I put one, two fingers into your
waiting
palm, and think, There is no other
place I'd rather be
than here.
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