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.