If I didn’t have a dream about the piercings on your tiny pink nipples over your smoothe, hard chest last night, I wouldn’t have found you.
It speaks to the way I feel about you, something distant and particular
a particular star in twilight that exists only within my relative distance.
It’s this gap between me and my illusion of you
that speaks in ways only my heart understands
and at times it overwhelms like an outpouring of stars
convulsing in and out
during its massive re-configuration
we wait for it, like that lonely soul who lives alone in the lighthouse waiting for a ship
or a deciduous tree in long winter
waiting to bloom, to feel the warmth
to see these types of activities before our eyes
to be colossally sucked into you like an avalanche before my open arms
to find you
after having awaited, after assumptions have been made, pictures drawn, dreamt, etched
since that first discovery
sprouting into
ultra femininity in me
that lets me understand your ultra masculinity
that lets you understand me
This man
who I’ve formed
sparkling in you,
piercing into my chest
