Jigsaw
I can still taste you.
Particles of knowledge,
a hint of cigarette smoke,
the tang of sex.
Hovering over me,
a reminder that my body is worthy of pleasure,
your eyes asked as many questions as they answered.
You felt like smeared tempra paint under my hands-
warm and wet and compliant-
the red of the trouble I thought you would be
in the beginning
from all the way across the room,
the blue of the relief
that I was not crazy-
that I was not alone,
the green of the excitement
pulsating off of my flesh,
more alive than it had been
since long ago,
someone else ago.
The contours of our bodies lay together
as if cut to fit,
adjoining pieces of the jigsaw puzzle.
And now the picture was finally making sense.
Yet here I am,
dying by inches,
my stomach eating itself away.
Even if you have failed the morning after,
maybe this time
the anticipation will not mock itself
and the landscape of my body
will no longer be geographically undesirable.
Maybe this time
the fire in my groin will illuminate above.
Maybe this time
will prove that windows do open when doors close,
even when climbing through them means
scraping your stomach on shards of glass
leaving a drop or two of yourself behind
and landing in a snowstorm on the other side.
Lost in the wilderness, but not lost alone-
at the beginning of a journey or at the end.
