Waiting for my Skin

Fallen into my lap
with a key and the password.
Shoulder birds singing
out the front of your skin.
Photographable energy.
Smiling like you mean it.
Believe me; I know.

Those equations
where space takes on
the opposite effects.
Claustrophobic distance.
So sure this separation
was all for the best.
Scrutinizing the loss hours later.
Pulled apart with too much time
and strong urges to say
The Three Words.

I thought it might have been proximity
that made your sword
the sharpest
but you're farther now
than she ever was.
Your population of
my dreams ascendent.

Plus-one Girl.
Breathing you in
love with your fragments,
eating the pieces of you.
Your joy cast off
in perforated fans
whirling off your fingers
and transformed into
congruent units off cerbral mass
increasing the general density of enrichment.

Trying to hide from you
in movements and techniques
honed form history.
Conditioned instincts.
Stunned by the lack of
the usual dismay.
Restless and automatic,
your song on repeat,
toiling through time,
waiting for you to come back to me,
waiting for my skin to form again.

Radiant. Fresh.
Alive. Hungry.
A bomb disturbing
the weight of a life.
Doling out new properties
and a desireable context.
Complicationless
stealing loneliness
and tickling the possible readiness
of letting go
a need for baggage.
Filling my boots and
dreaming of yours.