Scraping

Hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory,
The stagnant pace
of rigid distant space
and numbing, monotonic time.
These flawed laws of here and now
and the fickle fall of irremediable
touch.

I have touched her...

I have traced your naked lines
followed soft light into softer shadows
breathed you fully flower in
and kissed across your freckled fields
quivering between breath and touch.
I've tickle tongue tip teased you
moving, humming, pausing to hover
until the honey whispered echo
comes calling me, drawing me
home.

I've heard her calling...

I've tried to hold the moment still,
tried to be not here, not now,
not see you flush, or feel the hush
of holding back, and tremble hanging,
before heaving in a rhythmic rabid rush
that sets the bed board clanging.
This is the moment that we share:
that instant when we're naked and shaking
aware.

I have held her...

I've held my finger to your lips
to hold the moment hushed,
and quiet chests still heaving,
to hope we settle softly into evening.
My hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory.
The moment where you whisper
that all is as it should be,
and I recall that I am only ever me,
and except for now, you never will be
her.