she laughs at my jokes, head slightly tucked in. she is the dark of night that creeps in through the window, to settle on the edge of the bed, while I sleep. I dream of her hair, my fingers rumbling through ever fine strand, examining the velvet color as it bounces in the sun. even as the grass grows, she moves with the winter, melting periodically into a soft, sultry warmth.
she is the cool shower after a long sweaty day. she is the shadow under the tree, and the fruit from its branches that lays just out of reach. I lie under the leaves, waiting for her to drop down into my cupped hands, knowing she never will.
in her hand she plays a song and waits for me, to deny, to request, to rejoice. I look at her, hopeful, and think of what she wants to hear. she is poetic, yet curt- honest in her ways, and incredibly beautiful.
I am incredibly hopeless, knowing she wakes and walks with no need for me. yet, I am hopeful in the idea that she might just want me, lovely and soft, with no need. there can be simple desire without depravity?
in my darkest hour, I need her to settle my soul, to calm the calamity. but now, I only think of her hand, curing the ache of mine. each knuckle pressed against my fingers, our palms collapsing into one another, a nostalgic harmony that can only be found again in each others breath. the very upheaval of her lungs, the moment before she laughs- holds me captive.