handfuls of air

I see us in the endless field,

in slow motion, inner sun brilliant

on our faces together, leaping,

crouching under branches,

curling under the roots of the tree.

Down there, surrounded by your golden hair,

you showed me something in your eyes

I can't forget: a dark gift,

a false forever.

We crawled together through my dreams.

I remember. And the ones I can't,

you were there the strongest.

You took well to my pliant mind,

my childhood bed at 8pm

on a weeknight, light underneath the door.

You were there. You unfurled for me,

brilliant in the dark. You rooted yourself inside.

I was so small; how could I have known

the mark you'd leave?

I remained and you did not.

Sometimes I see you peeking through others.

You reach out through their faces

and withdraw. You lack a suitable vessel.

I try to find you one; I fill it with love like

a clay pot with water. I stare inside,

searching for your face.

But frustrated with the imperfections,

the crude ripples obscuring you,

I smash it to pieces and then regret,

crying out. I seek another.

The vessels can't understand why I treat them so.

They can't feel the chronic ache that comes

within the most beautiful moments,

when you wink at me through song,

through certain glints of sunlight,

and each wink is pain,

a cruel aftertaste.

They don't know their purpose:

to get me back to you,

the warm source of the reflection.

One glance could charge me

for a decade, could cancel out years.

Do I deserve it?

This vessel seeking vessels

won't last forever. Cracks are forming.

Time marks it up, claiming it.

Senses fade, but, thankfully,

no sense can hold you, lover.

You don't depend on fragile feelings.

You hover over the horizon of sensation.

My only hope is that I form a circle -

that time, blind in its cruelty, one day

twists me back around to you.