Curve of your long arm
dressed in pale skin. It would glow
if laid against mine.
Lying against me
are only empty sheets. I
know this cannot last.
This can’t last, I know.
Home waits, yet in this small world
we’ve made, home is not.
Home is not spoken.
The syllables of the heart
echo in our tales.
In our tales we find
the truths we dare not speak. All
whispered in the dark.
Whispers in the dark
a would-be lover’s promise —
my lips long for yours.
My lips against yours.
Can you taste my body’s shape
curving in your arms?
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
Clarion, Seattle
July 15, 1997