Nights of thinking alone,
gathering my proofs,
I’m still unsure you were real.
I loved the sweet caress of your voice,
the way your mouth shaped my name,
your eyes hovering lazily over mine.
I loved the soft touches and frenzied hands,
as you carried and explored me, explored together
in bed sheets and a summer night’s heat.
Balcony doors embraced the ocean with open arms
before us, the tingle of adventures together
left tickling my skin.
It was a night that brought so many gifts, so many
tender looks and sprawling affections
laying waste to the floor.
But it was a night left to my fantasy.
No videos, photographs, Facebook statuses
or afterwords of gratitude.
A night left as bundles of touches and
portions of tangled desire beautifully coiled like
ropes inside my head.
I need those proofs.
I need to know that love-nest even happened.
That it wasn’t some sickened dream I had,
whilst I cried in bed alone that it would soon
a frayed and ***** heap of pity left in place of you.
My heart would conjure anything to protect me from you.
My heart would drill holes in those fragments if it meant
lies from you, if it meant little pieces of love you could
hurt me with.
My heart is grateful for what you showed me,
the love you painted with me, for me, over me.
My heart is still in love with the times we shared,
the memories that glide around silkily in my sleep;
but my heart is also still frightened, of you.
And what power I gave you, over me, to make me
weep and search for evidence like this.
To finally know you loved me, or not.
Because that is what it needs doesn’t it?
Prove that it needs to, that it’s real.
Were you real beneath my fingers?