My chest hosted your nightly stomping, always first
In the object of your bedtime affections.
You settled unconditionally kind, without caution
In a creation
Where you were an afterthought.
Sunday, midsummer, when the senses grow wimpy,
The car hugged a lazy and hazy coast,
I retreat from an adventure that would not be
To return and face that I will never see you,
Incapable to have healed you.
You buffeted me,
A layer between us and the rest,
Insulating,
In their tortuous universe, but never fully a part.
Sharing an invented language,
We made sense of our graceful generosity.
Isolated and calm in our mutual caresses,
I yearned to return your pretty gaze
And I will not stop looking.
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