I'll never forget the things I can't remember.

A totem of her lips is a relic I would worship. Stacked one above the other, they would need to be built into the heavens to account for how many kisses they will receive from me. That’s infinity, never-ending, much like my loyalty to her, forever growing.

I see your silhouette outlining the bedsheets, curves where they should be, knees and feet somehow angled perfectly to show that it is you lying in my bed comfortably awaiting my touch, my reach, the slow moving of my ring finger up your thigh because I am particular when moving closer, closer with one finger slower, and faultless, faithful, while another finger falls to meet another finger, to finally form a grip sliding up your thighs, to pull slightly and know with tips pressed further forward you are ready for the kiss I never stop imagining placing on the fullness of your lips…

Imprint your kiss onto my skin. Let your lips linger and leave a haunting of love I’ll remember well after you’ve gone.

I reach out, stretching and searching, blindly and eagerly, where there’s nothing, not a vapor of Your presence, no answers to my questions, rhetorical or straight-forward, I am guessing at my own inquiries, leaving little to say to fill a void left open for everything.

Here comes a time in life when the moment a secret needs to be reaveled is the first option, second to forgetting and running away swiftly, either one should suffice, except I believe honesty should not be a regret but the crash to awaken what lies dormant. The dead stay in graves wishing for more chances, their spirit a reminder to never quit, because we only get one opportunity, one lifetime to make it work, and complaining never solved anything, it only ruins the pleasure of living.

Why will I learn more when death is sitting close to me, salivating over my failing body, ready to snatch my senses from their purposes, leaving me dark where light once was. It is then when I will realize the end is truly an end, and I should not let what I do not have, be the main reason that I am.

Understand my fortuitous attitude is in no way an attempt to prove I’m always right.

Maybe the moments where meaning is forced to mean something are the ones we should be less concerned about, and we should focus on those fleeting moments which come to be known as the building blocks for the foundation of a relationship.

Wouldn’t it be fun to do anything together? To decide it’s time to run around, to see each other smile because we are both somewhere spectacular, possibly a place we have never been, spontaneous hopefully, we travel anywhere the money we have can take us. We pack enough to feed us, and eventually find a place to settle…so at some point I can turn to see you at peace, sitting at my side, some sweat off a water bottle dripping onto your refined fingers, smoke from a tiny campfire swirling around us…and you know I’m staring but you allow me to; you know once you turn to face me I will kiss you for no other reason than the pressure of your lips, the slight taste of happiness from the tip of your tongue, then the barely audible sound our lips will make as they part; all things which will easily resonate and stay with me as laughter and discussion fills the rest of our time together.

Only this madness…

I’m sorry to say but they’re calling for more rain. Not a bad prediction since it means you and I can stay in bed all day not doing a damn thing except listening to the sky unburden its worries; the drops like tears dropping down the windows, to collect into puddles for splashing the sorrow all around, evaporating when the sun decides to show.

Right now, though, I want that bright star to stay hidden.

I stare at your pictures wishing I could pass through to you. Seems simple enough to step into the world you’ve captured, where time will stand still but our hearts continue beating for the other.

If the waters warm enough, find your way in, the shallow end is low for me to drop to my knees and I won’t be at risk of drowning. I don’t need saving, this is not a baptism but it is a form of rescue…a rescue from the quick ending I’ve always imagined happening, where I tread water alone until I sink to the bottom only to return for floating.

The water is fine, its missing your splash, though, the rippling you create as you step in, tiny waves carried out to shores unseen but passing each love lost because you’ve stepped into the water with me.

We are breaking hearts as our own broken pieces get glued back together.

Please. While I’m on my knees. Lift up your skirt and let my hands ease whatever I can reach.