Along the fine edge of your body,
I am too often
about to fall
into the shade
that is neither one of us.
There are things
I don’t want to know about you.
You are ugly
somewhere; a birthmark,
or some scar that requires a story.
I’m scared that maybe,
when we are bored with each other,
you won’t leave,
and I’ll be forced to carry your ugliness everywhere.
Your face is too much,
and the way you seem to accidentally touch me
is too much.
The warm stillness in your lips and your eyelids
is far too close.
I can touch you and you shudder,
or kiss you and you moan.
The sweet slide of your skin is all over me,
and I wonder how you were made.
