Lips graze my wounds,
Which sting and throb painfully.
Yet a point where
Heart, throat, and solar plexus
Collide
Soars and whoops and rushes,
Like an unexpected cool breeze
That rustles through the cattails
On a hot July day.
And when you
Run your fingers through my
Short, choppy brown hair,
They are as dragons,
Their flames trickling like water from
Scalp to brain to heart to navel,
The heat not feverish,
But pleasant,
Like a bonfire of cedarwood
On a cold winter night.
Yet the point where
Heart, throat, and solar plexus
Collide
Lurches painfully,
For I know that
You will never be mine, and
That this will end
All too soon.
I miss you when you are here and
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
