The first night I came beside him
we ****** in braille. It was quiet the way some fog
drifts low
touching your head, but too much of a 
phantom to ever feel inside you. I squeezed his
hand in code - once, this is
good. Twice, I am sorry this has to happen now, 
three never happened because I
could not let go: 
he was my air and he was the ceiling when
I arched my back, he held me
when I gave pieces of myself away to the summer
moon
whispering about my hands. The finger I
awoke his pillowed lips with and
we had the idea
to exchange chewing gum in the morning because
Suddenly it was important to taste each other:
I broke the barrier of not
knowing. Our mattress squeaked in
tongues as I told it how we would feel together
when I hold the sheets that way 
I clawed through his wrists to exhale the first time.
And we have kissed
like hot rain ever since, silence saying
how I once had no one to touch me but myself. I
did not know
how to hold him without believing it 
were an emergency - desperate 
places hands go when you smell me in the air
haunting the room and filling the inches between us.