The color your body bleeds when you lie beneath me here in this room,
a tangle of limbs and silence, is my favorite of any in the rainbow.
Once a few years ago I called you on the phone from work
and you picked up already saying I love you.
Physics accounts for the speed of light and the effect mass has
on the kinetic energy of an object in motion,
but will never be able to account for the way someone
begins to undress out of habit when their lover
touches their hand. I’ve been equating the words loving
and leaving as synonyms for far too long now,
stitching a quilt made out of your skin
so that I can always stay warm.
The first time we met, you blinked how happy you were
to see me in Morse code, and everyone else in the room
vanished like an act put on by Houdini.
It’s been far too long, you blinked.
Always, I blinked back.