It is a challenge
to imagine the rhythm
of a heart beating against
a chest you have never rested
your head on,
never let them devour you with
their softness and bring you
back to life with their hold.

Most days she is a dream,
an entity resting in my brain
in a place so far from my reach
that the little people living in
their hazy houses stare at a
different moon than I,
breathe an air much warmer
than I….

but I can still hallucinate
her skin against mine,
colliding like a car windshield
cracking the air with one
solid kick,
I can still imagine the hotness
of her breath riding my shoulder
like a cloud is carried by wind.

I can still pretend that the
air smells of her perfume,
and the scent that lingers on
my sweatshirt for hours is hers.
I sleep in it just to remember
what it felt like to run my
finger down her cheek,
letting every laugh line
melt into the ridges and
valleys dipping into my thumb.

I hold her because it is
the only form of art I can
manage, our kisses create
storms, but the kind of storms
that sprout greenery and make
willows weep, I let myself become
her and for the first time,
my lungs feel like they are
floating in the ether instead
of leaving a paperweight in
my chest.

I don’t think she believes me
when I say someday,
I think she thinks it is a dirty
word, always caught in her throat.
Truthfully, I too am afraid of the word,
because I want her here, now,
but someday is better than no day
at all so I tell her someday, even if she
doesn’t believe it,
I will tell her until distance becomes
intimacy and longing becomes a memory.