You call me darling, but: Darling, do not call me by that name, I could not bear it if I tried. That word is a pyre, and I— I do not know how to burn well enough.
Until I can swallow your absence whole and live, I will not lay a hand on you: You who call me out of my trembling cloak Of skin and muscle and bones, Into the lissome folds of that tender night To meet you.
Until I can meet your gaze without encountering some small death, I will not try to hold you: weightless one, Who I could never quite grasp anyway.
Until I can kiss your lips and remember Where you end and I begin I will not get lost in you: Constellation of nerves and veins and sinews, Strewn across the stars.
I have tried to love, weightlessly, But my heart is still heavy, my dear.
And I have tried to love you, desperately, Without the heaviness of desire or the desperation of need, But I have lost all substance on the pyre Of self-denial, for indemnity.