So much more lives in me than you'll ever know of, 
even though you once drew so close to me, 
whispering that I only know how to 
look at the outside of things.

But, when we're here as tangled resting skin, 
you always seem to be just out of reach.

My fingertips navigate every inch of skin 
and know 
these curves and valleys 
do not belong to a stranger.

Maybe that's what hurts the most, 
that you turn to a dim sky when our eyes meet.

I'll catch glimpses of someone 
so much more there, 
bright stars framed behind 
billowing dark clouds 
I tried to find the burning of.

I could spend forever counting each glow 
when I have no words to scribble down 
or say.

I realize calculating and forming sounds 
may not help, 
that you just need the silent warmth 
that the contours 
of our bodies have learned 
together, 
silhouettes 
that know how to comfort and heal 
on contact.

But there are faces in you 
I may never know.

I've seen flashes of them mingling in your eyes, 
memory crashing into jagged rocks.

I've seen these rushing collisions 
when our lips part, 
when those dark rivers scatter 
the pieces of you 
I keep trying to reach for.

You're so much more fragile 
than anyone will ever know.

I do 
because I know 
how to look outside of our fires 
where you seal the shards, 
where everything is a threadbare shadow 
the eye's lens pulls in, 
the shapes and splintered light streaming out, 
folding and unfolding.

My fingertips would navigate every valley 
of jetting flames and whirling smoke, 
knowing they belong to you.

Maybe that's what hurts the most, 
that the burning will never destroy me, 
only pull me closer 
because I believe 
beyond there 
lies so much more to you.