Simmetry

Small piece of poetry on the delicacy of you and me.

The delicate bones of your neck
and shoulders -- long lines.
I do fit there, against your warmth.
Yes, the long lines in between.

Sillhouettes of bodies, small
bitemarks against the clean skin.
The spaces of your fingers
or the long lines of wrists.

A thrill of laughter and expectation.
There are slight curves in your
hips and in your darkening eyes.
And the long lines on our mouths.

At last, this looks uncloses me.
I see the fluttering of your ribs
wondering if you can feel mine.
And lean against your long lines.

If light plays well, you'll see
my re-entrances and bumps -- slow
movements of arms and legs
that are not always long lines.

Your freckles and my paleness,
yours is dusted - mine, solid.
But the way we lean into each other.
I suddenly am the long lines.

For there is no parting when,
slowly, we touch, nor when we let go.
We meet again, delicate, spaciously,
curving and unclosing when
we mould into one long line.