i sense the scent of your skin,
(insideout), in between syllables
and concrete.
your dark, sweet taste lives in the space
between my teeth,
tongues probing, searching
blindly, constantly.
(i hunt for your soul
in the spaces)

your eyes met mine,
somewhere, long ago,
and we chased each other, furiously,
in endless circles, until your nails were white-hot,
and my skin smoldered, silently.
i wonder,
if, perhaps, life is not simply one
elongated
moment of intensity,
rather than a series of images,
if, perhaps, we are not
god.
(i write to you
in my sleep)

i do not know what it is about you,
that sinks beneath this flesh, bone and soul,
tattooing itself, powerfully, underneath my skin,
only that i, no poet, can not live
but with the scent of your skin
on the tip of my tongue,
always.