I only go back later on,
after a flurry of skin,
clamoring limbs and lips
racing to some unseen line.

After you fall asleep is when
I remember little things.

I rewind again to see
the way a smile in candlelight
radiates your entire face,
curves unnoticed before .

A trick of the flickering light,
a photographic anomaly,
tiny pockets aglow in dimples
bloom across brilliant irises
and remind me that we speak volumes
through the electricity when we touch.

When we're on the cusp of something
only we have the coordinates to,
that's when I think I love you the most.

I always go back later on,
watch our breathless crash rewind,
pausing to feel the simple things
flood through me again before
I forget how to hold on.

The suspense swelling in my chest
as fingers begin to interlace,
as you press against me
and your defenses instantly melt.

No pause can truly capture that gift,
the anomaly of surrendering
in order to gain the world.

I can always try, though,
to find that tiny pocket
in the vast universe where
we safely tucked ourselves away in,
where your touch speaks perfect volumes.

I have to go back later on,
when you're asleep and exhaling
warm breezes across my chest,
ear pressed to calm thuds
that bellowed thunder hours ago.

I stop rewinding us for now,
threading fingers through your hair,
listening closer to the soft music
entering and fleeing your lungs.

When I forget to hold on
and let time flow through me,
moment to moment,
second to second.

This is when I think
I love you the most.