Only I know my
long hours
only i -know my spine

i have little bruises mostly
only i now about
and i ask my angel in disguise-
down at night-
into blankets myself being folded-
why is your touch
so cold
and out of touch?

I miss you like the pulse of life
And I love you in that pulse of life.

I need the warmth of your skin,
your presence to touch,
to hold on to,
to touch the nape of your neck,
to be alive.

I am your atom.
I am you, for now

and as the night unfolds
i run out of things to hold,
(of) unspoken things rarely said alone to myself

and i ask of you.
And it's so much to ask and so little.
Everything could be done with one gesture

but it's not