Bless The God Of Small Things, by Me

I strain my
thoughts
like thread
through
rusted needles,
trying to find
a way
to explain
the tenderness
in your body
when it moves
against mine,
like a glove
so gently
holding
protecting
a hand.

I am a poet
who fails
or maybe
flies highest of all -
I can never
find the words
and so,
I make do
with what’s around.
Your tongue
paints pictures
like ancient
drawings of faith
across the bones
of my hips,
against
the throb
of my neck.

There’s something
so sweet, so soft
in the shape
of your eyes
when they turn towards me,
taking me in -
I can feel your whole self
dilate
and I feel like I, too,
just once,
might be Something.

You love me
with a charming grace
so believable
simply because
it is true:
you love me,
you love me,
and to you
it is as easy
and as complicated
as that.

In my worst dreams,
you leave me
and yet
you break my heart
so gently, so gently
that even in
my pain, my loss,
I never forget
how well
I have been loved
by you.

Your fingertips
read the prayers
written in braille
upon my pale skin,
and offers them up
to the god of small things,
the god of everyday deaths
and lives that try;
it is him I thank
when my palm presses
against your pulse,
counting the rhythm
of you, you, you
and I, I, I
until sleep takes us
in its arms
and rocks us into dreams.