His shadow is the same

his breath, his mane

of hair that tickles my chin

is the same as when

he had come to me the night before

that heavy rain when I might take him in a breath

in that scent of sweet deceit.

That beautiful lie where truth won't meet.

A beautiful disaster where I admit defeat

and touch the mirror

watching the ripples form into a man I no longer recognize

but no longer despise.

I can't satisfy my desire
to touch and to hold and to caress your body
with my hands,
for my eyes
capture
every detail of your silhouette.
With these palms and fingers,
I want your alter-ego
to part from this paper torso of lead, charcoal, and bread crumbs.
Transcend to this medium so that my pencil may stop.

It was a flash.
I remember the tickle
of the pain that passed.
It was a fickle kind of pain.
But then it was funny.
I giggled. I gasped. I grasped as it passed.
I was falling and tumbling as you touched my tummy.
No. In the words of the woman I am, "You caressed my breast."
You grabbed my shaking hand and you placed it on your chest.
Its strong thump transfixed me. Contradicted my thoughts.
It spoke all the words that your own mouth could not.
"I am hot. I am cold.
I am scared of what I hold.
I want you. I need you.
I fear you. I see you.
We share this feeling.
The one we can't name.
We share this feeling.
Because we are the same."