Like an orange thread of light
hissing in the paradoxical darkness
your voice squeezed itself sideways
through the door I’ve kept ajar
and pitched camp in the valley of my comfort
and learned all tricks necessary
to be all that I need

punctuated by gypsy eyes
with a disarming sensitivity so constant
it leaves no room for error
in the hit-and-miss capturing skills
of photographs.
Something about your eyes tell me
I ought to have realized sooner
that I wanted to know you.
I wish I could look at your eyes
every time you told me I was beautiful.
There’s a conclusion in there somewhere
in the science of going back in time.

This is what love must feel like,
if love could be
truncated in several places
because I can’t touch you
but I can feel the ribbed veins
protruding from the surface
of your life,
because I can’t watch you move
but I can see divine translucent light
bouncing off the rounded corners
of your soul,
because I can’t kiss you,
although God knows I want to,
but I can touch
the lips of my longings
on each square inch of skin
on your mind’s meanderings.