I was close to you for so long 
and it was only through words at first,
and to know I'm forever punctured
by something not made of skin or steel,
to be torn from different wombs
and always feel that you never
entirely left its fleshy darkness.

It was something in your every shadow
that reached to touch me the most.

I don't care what that says about me.

I'll meet you in that nocturnal meadow one day.

We don't have to name it yet.

And what we have may culminate 
with rainbowed tulips in your hands 
while we watch sudden explosions drizzle
tremulous lights across summer skies.

And with the deepest embrace in which it's proven
that men spend their entire lives just seeking
to return to the absolute pure sanctuary inside 
as you wonder if these electrified cells 
map what you've always sought or if 
it's merely nerves writhing in temporary fire.

And despite the need to remain untethered,
you wanted our eyes locked in some mythic polarity,
lips gleaming in a magenta sheen
as they seek to cover mine,
you wanted me to be complete inside you,
to know this place of furious bliss and safety.

And the delicious pressure of your frame
pressing with such certainty also said it,
to imprint a being into your bones,
to just fully claim you where
the past and future cease
as we shudder in a rapturous present
and whatever lives beyond there because
a half measure is never a complete surrender.

But we don't have to name it yet.

I was close to you for so long,
and it's marked by more than words
to know you're forever punctured
by what flesh expelled us,
to be torn from another womb 
and still know that what we really are 
doesn't really ever meet in darkness.

Even if our most feral embrace
may initially blossom in shadow,
it culminates with a collision
of furious light and eruptions.

I don't what that says about us,
we don't have to name this yet.

We'll still meet in that nocturnal meadow.

The both of us punctured yet complete.