How can I say what it is to feel the weight of the betty you love as she naps, her arms and legs draped and entwined with your own, her breath coming in short bursts of warm air against your neck?
How can I say what it is to think and see in poetry, to scope the sky and ground in short phrases that drip and heave with blood and bones and dust?
How can I say what it is to know the heat of your heart-Jack pressed hard into the corners of your own, moving and rocking, musk mingling with pine and wood smoke, the dew on her back shimmering and rising, meeting in a cloud the breath of a cool night’s air?
How can I say what one does with eyes so gray and clear you heel it on foggy sands and are lost and found and lost again, your reflection ebbing, mirrored in the glassy pool of her luminous hazy gaze?
How can I say what it is to hold someone so close they move through you and beyond and emerge sliding fast into an eclipsing vastness your steps can never retrace?