I am after that high, the one that resides at the opening of two souls who slices through the skin beyond the flesh to the veins. The contact high of late night, half open eyes, almost drifting to sleep, in the dark, under the stars talks of deep desires and fiery fears.
I ride the crest of each wave—high as a seagull, wings spread wide each time our insides touch, each leaving its mark on the other.
I trace the marks daily, yearn for my next fix/
I clench my fists, dig nails to palms…a measly attempt at reminding myself every time this itch surfaces,
This—this is not worthy of every day; the opening of souls can’t happen every day, every contact
Or it would lose its sheen.
