You always come to mind at dark.

Your flesh dissolves
through my open hands--

your scent becomes fleet
and pale.

Sometimes I'll inhale
a warm clove of you

but more often


I inhale you through.

You always say it softly,
as if admitting it at full-volume
would somehow make it all too true.

You usually say it quickly,
as if slowing down would give you
too much of a window to back out halfway through.

You rarely say it sober,
as if you need those other influences
first to make you more mild and subdued.

You say it like its temporary,
as if you are waiting for a reason
to  finally believe we are really through

You don't say it
nearly as often as you feel it.
I see that when my eyes match yours, blue for blue.

You say it like you're shocked,
as if you still haven't got the slightest ******* clue
that I love it (no matter how) you say it,
simply because
I love you too.