I cling to the things you said, like grapes to the vine.

The spaces between what you said and what I heard. The longing between things left unspoken and the time I see you again.

(Miles to go.)

Does it ache for you like it aches for me?

I remain with fragments of memories and wishful thinking, still.

Your eyes dance across my body, and my spine shivers while you pull the air directly from my lungs, and my face sizzles.

Six inches apart.

Close enough to touch, not close enough to have.

Would you reach over and break the divide, only to find your hands full of sand, slipping through your steady fingers?

What am I to you?

I come as two. You come as two.

I’m not afraid, but you are.

See me in everything that you do, but the cat has your tongue.

My name slides from your throat like it has lain dormant your whole life.

Breathy whispers of pleasantries between us and dilated, eager eyes.

I hear what you do not say, and I want what I cannot have.

Your eyes reflect the shimmer on my skin, and I’m lost in each breath you take. The rhythm in and out.

I blink, and the sun hits my eyes as you lie next to me, asleep.

This must be home.