reypulque

the measure of my dreams

It is the first light I see before I close my eyes that nestles in these revelations. It is the ghost of a moment, the breath of intent. The smooth skin and all its comfortable assumptions, the bounty pressed by bone and earth. That stirring of sheets just before dreaming is unleashed. That settling of circumstance to the stillness deep with-in. I hold your name there, like a wish before scant candle-smoke. I hold your name, like some secret that makes everything real.

I comb the globe for hints and rumors, read as much of the news as I may bear. I listen to the bass line as it unwinds the song's report. Every click and whistle is an escape or an assault, the threat of such a driven distraction, the flex of a throat before speech or swallow begins. The nape of your neck, the reach of your spine. Those wings always so ready to fly. Empty hands folded together in resignation. The smile that suggests how closely the sacred resembles defeat.

Lips curl and knuckles crack, I stretch out a familiar ache clutching at my back. Scratching after scars, smoothing out the stubble. Light touched only by air and dust. A memory of your hair, a trance-like silhouette against thin drapes. Somehow the things that sleep releases feel so much like beautiful regrets. Things that could not happen seem to grow heavier with remembering the moment that was missed. Things that always happened lost in those mysteries of lit skin, bare but for this touch. Fingers tracing promise they never could forget.