we parcel ourselves
to trade with each other
through glances, gestures, and words
a handful of fears
and a sky filled with our desires.

we barter quotations of our lives
fruits and goods of experience harvested
after being toiled in the garden
where the sun lives and dies
all over and over again.

we even offer our silence,
we breathe deep while memory seeks
to unearth the pieces we lost or misplaced,
at times finding those pieces
we choose not to trade.

i spread our traded pieces,
yours alongside mine
and discover they share
bursts of red passions,
hues of blues,
warm white and cold black
on their skin and flesh and smell.

there is that space between us,
silent as the dead, distant
like the stars of no particular time
and i would like to fill it with something
crafted on my own, from memory of pieces
we trade and traded.

something like a bridge to span along
the ocean of gray space between us.