Our Love

"Just like two saints or priests or nuns
my true love and I lay without touching."

- Leland Bardwell

We spend our days in rooms
full to the brim with sunlight;
yet these beams are a barrier,
blocking us from each other.

This, our celestial dance,
has become the familiar;
a perfect orbit, no clashes,
no more can be said about it.

I remind myself that our love
is better, softer, purer than others.
Yes, our love's bed sheets
are bright and white and clean and flat.

Still... I find myself touching things,
knowing your fingers have been there before;
try to lift their prints from paper, pens...
and rub them into my skin, let them sink in.

And at night I dream. I dream
of a dismantling; a collapse of the sun
and her beams... that you will come to me,
carrying your touch - your fingertips

so heavy with it: all, and only, for me.
I wake with their weight on my lips,
the memory of the dream whispering:
"His kiss... his kiss... his kiss..."