compulsion shows the truth.
what i seek, between your hands,
in the empty space the flesh can fill,
is less than what is possible.
what i am capable of, between your hands,
the words and actions that can come
from the crush of affection:
call it fire, call it fear, all things
come to an end when confronted
with absolution.
what could hell possibly be,
if not the gradual, witnessed wilting
of love and life?
the fading out of vibrance, color:
where the push of your skin on mine
does not force emotion,
there is no longer any time!
any words we join into sentences
fall by, fall flat,
we must find moments to sequester them,
reorder them and make them live again.
what could hell possibly be
but your specific absence?
the room we create
between the arcs of our fingers
(lasting only moments,
passing like stars in the sky)
decries the common truths.
all love is specific, beautific,
writhing with the work of possibilities.