He Holds Heartache

He holds me like a child, 

the firm grip of his arms in  

choking ecstacy, 

misty forgotten days that swirl 

in lavender smoke. 

a crushing, sublime feeling, 

suffocating under the bedsheets to 

hold in time, 

to suspend myself deeper 

in his aura. 

Face to face: 

I cannot displace his skin 

from my heart, 

the soft-crumpet cheeks and one-sided smile, 

ruffled hair and the 

expressions he will never see: 

dreams that cannot be. 

I see them mottled and happy 

between his teeth and in the skin 

beneath his eyes, 

their old world blue the 

seismic gasp that names us in 

the nights of alone. 

His heart beats and 

I drift into his chest, 

a girl with cottonwool limbs and  

hands the falling carousel that decks 

the sand on a  

Devil's pier. 

I long for his touch, 

the palm-to-palm charm of a  

Gentle kiss, 

Cherry lips,  

mix ups in the dark. 

His laughter waltzes behind my eyelids as 

I sleep, 

the token questions he 

wishes he could 

Read. 

When I open these eyes, 

Hold me -- 

Closer -- 

until the sun stings like children, 

the children that play.