On my Bed Thinking About You
If I could touch
without hurting you
I would run all the way to the river
But nothing has changed.
You are voiceless,
in some long-forgotten childhood
a dark jungle where every tree
looks like every other tree.
I long for your scent,
your knees pushing against
but what is asked for is often destroyed
by the very words that seek it.
My bed is a fossilized prison
where I learn to make love to you forever.