the real question is whether or not i will make you immortal* as i press my lips to the curve of your cheek on the page, feel your fingers gently grasp around my wrist in a light grip and sigh. because this is such a slow moment in time, stretched out along the length of my bed in the soft darkness of the night, my body wrapped tightly in yours as the two of us drift off into sleep. i do not know any other way to love people, but to write the lines of your body clear across the page, slowly claw the desire of what you do to me along the edge of my skin as i shudder, shiver and then collapse forward into the memory of your arms. and in doing so, i used to wonder what you and other people think of this, because i will not regret it in the end, for this moment existed once in this type of love, carved out against the thudding beat of my heart as i slowly try to climb into you, elicit a smile and a laugh, trace my fingers through your beard and eventually fall asleep with my head on your shoulder and your arm around my waist. for we'll exist, immortal, as love letters on this page together long, long after these moments are over.
the first two lines of the poem are taken from They eat out by Margaret Atwood.