Reaching But Never Quite There
— to my first love
My heart echoes in the crevices of your body,
it lurches in the dip of your hips,
palpitates in the broadness of your chest,
drums in the cinch of your waist.
It is I, once again caressing your face,
holding it slow and still; careful and uncertain.
I am wise enough to stay on my lane,
but stupid enough to hope I’ll ever cross the gate
you’ve built for your prized commitment.
I wait for you; reaching but never quite there.
These are my wistful wishes,
desperate demands, and quiet yearning.
At the end of it all,
I like to think that all my days
of fury and delusion,
and all of your days of fear and paranoia;
I become yours.
You become mine.
Note: Sapphic yearning at its finest, I fear.
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