This is a poem at midnight
a walking away of hands.
It is beautiful that
we will never run out
of love the way we
run out of salt.
We are children of the sea
oceans inside our
glass bodied vessels
and drifting along rough sands.
I want to touch you
a hundred different ways,
to kiss you like I need it to breathe.
You just tell me about making magic
I can tell you about making love
(and how they are both the same).
I love you
and I wish that actually meant
something.
Instead I rely on
poorly structured letters
and wrap my head round the wildflowers
in hopes that we can lie,
hopelessly entangled,
until it is uncertain where
I end and you begin.
Make me laugh and you have my soul.
The way your heart beats in my ribs,
around my spine,
you are magic.
