Thursday, 9 February 2012

The bones of your face

I run my fingers from the dark patch on one collar bone along the line of smaller moles on the other. My palm is flat against your warm chest and I just want to know you.

As my head sinks down against you, I can only rest. Breathe you, feel you. And wonder how we got here.

Almost a year and a half have passed since we had the first of these moments. Moments of connection and need, real and so very simple. Moments that will not release their grip. There is no 'us', but we are not 'he' and 'she'.

I am disarmed by you.

You ask me why it must be all or nothing? It needn't be so.

The bones of your face and head are imprinted on my hands. I can feel your skin as I type. My thumbs can trace your brow.

You kneel in front of me imploring me to give you what we both want. I cannot: not here, in your world. I want to and I will, perhaps, one day soon.