Moonlight, Mortal Wound

It’s not the kind of thing I can explain to other people, what we have, how I love you.

It’s just something I will have to shape my life around –

That’s what I'm thinking as your silhouette fills my window.

What words could bear the symbols of this moment?

There is no way to describe how you look in your black t-shirt, your body absorbing the moonlight, your hair falling smooth and languid. What words could I press into the page with the force of my desire? With what name could I grasp this feeling?

It’s not the kind of thing I can explain, not even to myself. I'm curled up in bed like I've been stabbed in the chest, cradling my heart, closing my body around this new depth. How can you do this to me, standing at the window, just closing the curtain at night?

And how can I explain what has been done? Like this:

If pleasure is the opposite of pain, then you have wounded me mortally.

No, like this: I would follow you anywhere, I would give my life to you.

No, there is no explanation.

There is only the wound I must cradle.

And there is only you, leaving me no choice.

Your broad, smooth angles as you stand in the window, laundered cotton tight against your skin, your mouth supple from heat and sex, the dwelling closeness of your touch, your breath…

I feel it folding in on me, like a forced narrowing of my heart. I don’t mean to close myself around the wound, but how else can I bear it?

I suppose I could render it into beauty. I suppose I could bleed wordful blood…

I suppose I could turn out the lights; I suppose I could wait for you in bed. I suppose I could shut out
the darkness in your mind, lull your hauntings to rest. I suppose we could breathe together, no words, two heartbeats. I suppose I could show you the depth of my desire.

I can’t explain it. You are just so handsome in the moonlight.