sometimes(vs)always

Unrequited love, I suppose.

Sometimes, when light is brushing its fingertips (gently; sunrise is honey in the sky, slow) against the sky, I wish her mouth were mine. If only to touch it to your cheek, dear, and kiss yours. If only to take in your breath and say that some tiny part of you is absorbed into me, sustaining.

I only think of these things (my chest feels them always - a weight, a dream) in the minutes before dawn; it is the only time I allow myself the weakness of supposing your mouth would bend lightly under mine. That your fingers would curl in the hair at the nape of my neck and squeeze (map out the network of my bones and muscles and tendons and feel that all of me/us is connected, that even my blood pushes harder to touch you - please. please feel this) enough that I could feel the press of your pulse against mine (with mine).

Then of course, this is not how it would be at all (I see it in your hands clasping the neck of a guitar, cup of coffee, rose, her hand. Always her hand).