euler's number falters in comparison

when eyes close
and ghosted fingers
trace over goose-bumped skin,

when unconscious
states coax heavy lids
and whispers swirl,

when forms collide
and diaphragms strike in
rhythm with each other,

when fingers divide and conquer
delicate strands of hair,
brushed back from peering globes,

there is no other,
both in truth and in idea,
whose fingers touch,
and whose voice beguiles,
and whose skin delights,

quite like yours,
oh, half to my half
and piece to my piece.

it has always been you.

it will always

be you.

a one-way journey

one could

get lost in

the space between

the letters

on a page,

swimming against

the current of curves

and jagged lines,

amidst the swirls

of an s and the

loops of an o,

among the loneliness

of a z

and the enthusiasm

of an e.

one could

simply get lost

and never return;

and i would not

have the

courage

to

beckon

me

back.