Your Touch
Bombs could drop and in your arms, I’d still feel the same comfort and safety I have always felt.
The contours of your face not quite as taut and as muscular as when we were 16
still heats my body in all those secret places only you have traveled countless times.
Underneath all the stars above, you and I, name the constellations and watch — together.
You are far and distant now. Alone is a prison. A death sentence. When you are not near.
It seems you’re sinking infinitely into Sagittarius A and yet, I am your perfect quasar in wait.
Building energy.
Your ghost lingers as heavy as snow in March.
And April is a dread alone. A Wasteland cruel and cold.
It’s 3 AM and awake I remember the curl of my fingers in the hair on your chest in the days of sleep. You are gone and yet, you’re as intricately woven into my DNA as I am in yours.
There is no end to the distance between stars as the universe expands.
I sit and drink my tepid coffee. I see your brown eyes looking back at me. They spark intelligence as you move your Hnefatafl piece.
By Heather A Busse – August 16, 2023
Note: I typically refrain from writing poetry. It’s more an exercise in concrete details on a subject. I wrote this quickly to illustrate sensory detail and specifics in a poem in a writing group. I later revised to this and still I may tinker again.
