I want to know you more Deeply, Intimately, Tenderly, Personally
I want you to know the you I see, and I want you to know her too
I want to know who else has this runaway pinky I inherited from you
I crawl into the untouched side of the bed White sheets still tucked, unmoved. Kicking the hospital corners loose,
I say, come back to bed; let’s start the day again. Slowly, together, I hold your hand in mine
Here in this morning we find the geography of us
I want to know more about this aging body, and I embrace yours to meet mine
I want to know if there was an off-ramp I missed to avoid the things I was taught to dislike: the popping veins, sculpted knuckles like worn-out faces, and sagging skin
Soft whiskers catching light
All day I spent tweezing, you say. I’m going to ask God, when I meet him, why all the body hair?
To keep you humble, I whisper, and we both giggle
I want to trace the veins on your hands and discover where they meet mine. I want to connect the dots of your dark and mysterious moles. I want to count them, and you tell me there are too many. I want to run my fingers through your tousled hair, evidence of a good night's sleep
I wanted to find my way back to you and know you in this way so I could know parts of myself: tender, intimate, soft
I wanted to see you and the square inches of your body, the ones you would show me that reflect mine
I wanted to talk to you in this way where your lines connect with mine, and we are surprised and delighted by our unbridled pinkies.
I have wanted to know you away from the gaze of the church you hold close, the walls, the sacraments, and the rules
I want to know you in this sacred place in the quiet language of morning; soft light, soft sheets, soft skin