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.
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