Ours are
the quiet hours
when I reach
for a coffee handed over
my shoulder.
Minds long-bound
(needle and thread, coil and comb)
in language long ago, since
the day we met
the day we loved
the First Day
when you made me feel…
supple, real,
worthy of careful reading —
beneath
against
within
feeling into
your finger
tips
tracing palms,
hesitantly,
heavily.
There’s a pin I put in that feeling
(pin and ring, needle and thread).
I’d waited
so long.
I think
you had been with me
for centuries
before we
collided
evaporated,
condensed.
back, back, back…
And if one day
you cannot meet me
over my shoulder,
down onto crinkled sheets loosened
halfway from the spine
and the world does not know why we’re weeping —
No matter the reason, the page,
I will wait for you where I close my eyes,
sinking down and…Back…
into coffee-stained thin pages
of our codex —
(needle and thread, needle and thread)
Back…
into the First Day.