So much more lives in me than you'll ever know of,
even though you once drew so close to me,
whispering that I only know how to
look at the outside of things.

But, when we're here as tangled resting skin,
you always seem to be just out of reach.

My fingertips navigate every fold of your heart
and know these curves and valleys
do not belong to a stranger.

Maybe that's what hurts the most,
that you turn to a dim sky when our eyes meet.

I'll catch glimpses of someone
so much more there,
bright stars framed behind
billowing dark clouds
I tried to find the burning of.

I could spend forever counting each glow
when I have no words to scribble down
or say.

I realize calculating and forming sounds
may not help,
that you just need the silent warmth
that the contours
of our bodies have learned
together,
silhouettes
that know how to comfort and heal
on contact.

But there are faces in you
I may never know.

I've seen flashes of them mingling in your eyes,
memory crashing into jagged rocks.
I've seen these rushing collisions
when our lips part,
when those dark rivers scatter
the pieces of you
I keep trying to reach for.

You're so much more fragile
than anyone will ever know.

I do
because I know
how to look outside of our fires
where you seal the shards,
where everything is a threadbare shadow
the eye's lens pulls in,
the shapes and splintered light streaming out,
folding and unfolding.

My fingertips would navigate every valley
of jetting flames and whirling smoke,
knowing they belong to you.
Maybe that's what hurts the most,
that the burning will never destroy me,
only pull me closer
because I believe
beyond there
lies so much more to you.