I found myself in the
same dream over again now:
a moment of a moment,
where life turns still around us.
Passersby blur into pine,
into yawning lakes,
into sleeping mountains,
and the warm autumn
settles with the scent of
woodfire in the distance.
You squint your eyes
and shield your face—
neither one of us ever
fond of the sun’s loudness—
and I want so fully to
collapse into the breath
of air that stirs between us,
that my lips may memorize
the way yours open—
a gasp, a beat skipped
for a moment of a moment,
and explore the corners
of your mouth.
When I am without you,
my fingers ache for taste—
the rounded curve of your jaw,
the long slope of your neck,
the rise and fall of your throat.
When I am without you,
I imagine what you might say
as I store the groceries,
or wrestle with fitted sheets,
or sit on the stairs of the deck
while the dogs bark
at ballerina butterflies.
Sometimes dreams
remain dreams—
if I could steal but
a moment
of a moment,
I would spend it all
simply to say,
“I have only ever loved you.”