It's her body's mysterious calligraphy,
a flourish of what marks have made her 
into the feverish form folding and unfolding,
humming as if the body is being sung to,
some tender coda reaching past singed nerves
and stars swarming against a gathering darkness.

Closer to the quiet sweetness beyond oblivion.

The soft gasp made is even more powerful
than thunder because of how quickly it ebbs away,
how the smallest note invokes the scent before rainfall,
heat lightning soundlessly strobing across inexperienced skin
still learning how to touch and move through the other,
even then it was the home I longed to stay in.

There is nothing more human than this novae,
to measure ourselves against stars bursting
and to at least remember the beauty that flickers
through the connective tissue that entwines between
the natural violence of creation and unmaking. 

Maybe that's why her skin feels sacred,
always touched as if for the first and last time,
her body's mysterious calligraphy has already
told me of every unique mark made before
and the promises that she may never believe
that melt yielding flesh pressed so close to me.

The soft ache to be needed and understood
against the shape of another's closed heart,
of a breast like the shape of a teardrop ready to fall
upon a being humming as if being sung to,
forever folding and unfolding when everything
we used to touch just became another wound
like we couldn't know want without the pain.

Closer to the sweetness beyond oblivion.

There was nothing more human than to 
remember exactly where it hurt.

It always begins with her body's mysterious calligraphy
still learning within our inexperienced skins,
even if I see a beauty she may never believe in.