I want my hands to land
On places of your skin
Your clothes fail to cover.
The light curve off your arms
Exposed by your slipping cuffs,
The nape of your neck,
Peering through your loose collar,
The silvers of your complexion,
Spilling through the net of loose threads.
For someone so delicately simple,
You are still so exciting,
Not in a way that sets off an unforgiving blaze
But a warm, ebbing flame
Well, maybe not a flame,
For I fear that would mean you burn me out too quickly.
You’re the glow at the end of a cigarette,
You are quiet, methodical even
And I spend every moment trying,
To keep away the urge to breathe in deeper,
To tug you closer,
And so I pray,
“Do not wane,
Do not wane.”