Not enough

There is a weight
to your nearness
Storm-static grazing the edge
of a dry field.
My skin hums with it,
and the knowing of what comes next

You offer your stillness
the way fire offers light:
Seen,
felt when near enough,
not touched.
Greedy hands are punished.

But I was born without that kind of caution,
I think.
Without the sense to know what will hurt
Or of what’s not meant for me.
I’ll reach, even when told to stay still.
My body leans like it remembers
a language it’s not allowed to speak-
And like it forgets
you asked it not to

God, I remember
when your skin crashed into mine
And I felt it bloom in my chest like blood.
Not a wound, not exactly
This deepening sense of ache
Crimson, ink-blot art
We’re art, I know that

Tailspin fall further into your unknown
Kept afloat only in the places
you so lovingly let me orbit.
Selfishly, I would press my forehead to yours
and let the room go dark
If you’d let me

But instead, I’ll gather
these too-small scraps of you:
a glance, your quiet laugh,
those too-spaced out moments where your guard finally drops
And I’ll tuck them all
Safe
Chest-close
Where I’ll know how to find them,
when I look.
And I will look.

You say nothing is owed
And I do believe you.
Most times I believe you.
But still,
my hunger builds altars
in every space you can’t touch me.

You look at me like it’s an apology,
and I will smile like I accept.
But inside, every version of me
that’s kept hidden from your view
is kneeling at that shrine,
mouth full of want
With hands upturned
And empty, again

And I know that I’ll worship there.
Quietly.
Semi-invited.
Forever almost.
And it’s not enough.

Am I?