Fingertips make valleys
in undiscovered skin and
on yours my hands
have hardly made ravines.
But I know that
your freckles don't spill
over your skin like flecks of
cosmic dust,
they are carefully placed
so that I remember them.
I know your smile,
the way it looks
and how it feels
pressed against mine
in the pause before a kiss,
vivid and human.
I didn't know the feeling
of the floor then
the way that I do now,
a landscape of tangled legs
and feather duvets and
the unforgiving flatness
of the varnished oak.
One day my fingertips
will leave valleys
my kisses will taste like saltwater
and when leaving doesn't kill me
then I'll understand
that nothing is terminal,
not even love.
Over here the ocean stretches forever
and now I think,
the hardwood floor
would be such a nice place
to lay my head.
