In the Quiet

my simple touch,
the tangible yearning
of my warm corpse
for yours.

i think of times,
of the uncertainty
of affection that is not
love.

and her paleness,
in strained nightlight
shines like the moon’s smile,
silver.

the puzzle,
pieces strewn across
pavement and dim stars,
could lean.

(like you lean into me as if the world had not changed into itself)

i am not (here),
i wish the knots
might tangle we
a little closer,
we a little nearer
that my skin would
know yours.