next to bedside tables, where we set these pieces of ourselves

casting our lives away, in submission to white linens

but more to calloused hands or sore legs

more to thumbs running the eternal patterns in your face

more to you attempting to find divinity in mine

more to skin smooth like the gemstones i told you about

more to bodies engulfed in the blaze of nudity

and more to what intricate floods we let enter our hearts

the daze of white-tipped waters overflowing,

immense yet soft as they rush through the body

like the tea you made me, as we sat there

steam rising in the fullness of collective presence

or like the flickers of life that played in your eyes as you took my hand that final december morning

the silhouettes of your memory, taking shape where they first rose

crawling onto a mattress, reaching out for you, enclosed in the left side of my chest, always 

blooming, always drawing me into you, your glow imprinted, not too far, soon, coming closer