Nothing is terminal
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.