He who doesnt

Don’t you know me

I am the sound

that small fleeting sound

that echo’s in your ear

as you stretch out

in the morning,

in the moment between dreams

the one you live

and the one you sleep

I am the hands

that flutter through air

like feathers

like a hacksaw cutting through metal

call me tornado

I can not decide what I am

beautiful or horrible

but always trying

to be known, to be understood

I would rather be the breath

that passes from your lips

into another’s

giving life to love

or something like it

who am I to judge

I imagine myself

as the sound that echoes in your ear

in the instance of creation

that joy filled prideful noise

that begins as nothing,

requires you to hone it down

If I were that happy noise

I would be so pleased to belong to you

I would wrap myself first

around your arms

so that you could not forget to play me

eyelids closed and feeling all the lashes

the fine bones that surround them

cheeks and jawline

I would sweep down the curve

of your clavicle

paying careful attention

to the column of your neck

and I would rest in the hollow

above your heart

Keep me there

like a locket

and when you need to remember

that you are loved

open me up

You know me

I am the sound

of palms finding, of fingertips

and forearms, pale as a swans long neck

of bones moving under the skin

of sweat that turns to sugar on the tongue

and callouses, most beautiful accoutrement

it was you who taught me

to imagine the lives between the layers

memories, of all the strings touched

or caressed or pulled and plucked

into new life

if you’re quiet you can hear me

I am a whisper of skin

a song sung between bodies

I am a beat

bombom bombom

I am the blood

and the bone and the flesh

of something certain

You will never hear me

from someone else.