There is such intimacy in closeness,
To hear the sounds of the living,
Each individual breath
Catching at first,
Then settling into a rhythm,
Like a hitch within a storm,
The letting up of rain
Before a second downpour…
The rising and falling of the chest
And the grumbling of soft stomachs,
Like thunder in the distance.
Breathing individual scents
To get a sense of who they are,
What they do,
What they enjoy,
Is such a delight…
Warm honey, mingled with cinnamon.
Lavender,
A hint of jasmine tucked under the sleeve,
And the tracings of vanilla on the spine
Pooling into a collection of memories
And suppositions of where they were
Or could be.
The feel of warmth spreading through your chest,
Touching your fingertips,
Bringing them out of the isolation of each digit
Calculating each stroke and caress
Each pause,
Each mark on skin
Both indelible and yet forgiving…
Quieting the need to awaken,
And accepting the approaching calm
While stifling the flinch that arises
With each seemingly bated breath.
The taste of silence
On lips softer than the harsh reality
That dreams must be awakened from
But not now,
Not yet,
In this moment you can taste fleeting freedom
That latches on as tight as you,
For once…
Candied sweetness and yet,
Something more than temporary fullness,
A lingering weight,
But not a burdensome one
Rather a satiated cry for connections
You once thought were forever lost.
Moonlit Poetry 