I tell you
I love the two creases where your arm meets your shoulder,
the sharp angle of your hipbone,
the thick strip of muscle running along each side of your spine that makes a long river valley perfect for trailing fingers.
I tell you things I notice about you:
an accented word,
that you still touch your ex like a lover,
and how you contain yourself when I get too close to the depth of you.
I think it must be difficult for you
each time I am not fooled by the translucent,
slightly distorting mask you wear.
It’s so clear to me when you’ve had enough,
when truth leads to fear
and intimacy scares you out my front door.
I want to whisper behind your ear,
“I know you’re afraid,”
but I keep the silence of my own fear,
compounding fear upon fear.
Would you enclose yourself if I named it?
So, I move forward,
impatiently patient,
let the words tumbling ‘round in my head
drift towards paper;
not to be spoken yet —
perhaps never…
words like
I want,
need,
crave,
more of you.
That I watch you when you’re sleeping and
something in my chest catches —
even the snores that wake me at 3 am
make me smile,
like the hairs on your toes, the fine shape of your feet,
how you walk lightly in the world
as if the divine cupped your heels.
I don’t say that
I know you will let fear have its way with you,
walk away
calm and intact,
solitary, centered, and in control —
even this I love about you…
Just as I know that
you will take a part of me when you go.
I gladly give this
in advance,
because the gift of you,
the heart you’ve reawakened,
the tears I know I will someday spend on you
are worth every moment of this
Now.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2001