We breathe yes
into every no
because it's easier that way.
That whispered affirmation
That sighing hope
is the pebble that shakes
from the cuff
of your pants and rolls
unnoticed
to the pond
where its invisibility is
compromised.

It becomes something beating
heaving
causing.
What erupts from it
concentrically
is no natural event
no miraculous happenstance
but the direct effect
of our willful breaths
proclaiming fervently
yes.

No matter how
you hold me, my forehead
always
seems to meet your
heartbeat—as if to reassure me
that you’re still there.
As if every part of us is
alive and desperate
to communicate it
with our gently shattering
bodies.

We’re breaking
but not broken.
Haunted, but not ourselves
ghosts.
The ridges of your thumbs
exorcise me
and I escape
the insanity
of my gossamer
thoughts.

You’re an idea I had
as I fell to sleep last night.
This morning, I can remember your
verbs—a general outline.
I’m haunted by the ellipsis of you.

But this fatal mind convinces me,
my Pale King,
that—if I’m
worthy—you’ll return
to my pillow
as I fall
Again.