All those quaking little moments I spend with you,
forgetting I was lost in the land of resistance.
Every time you make my spine arch and feet curl,
you bring me back into existence.
It was like I was surviving in a wasteland
of only black and white.
There was no color to my form,
mostly shadows and least of all light.
With the gentle touch of your fingertips,
like a brush stroke to my being,
color slowly spread throughout every inch.
Color slowly began reappearing.
I didn’t know how hungry I really was,
or how petty my self-judgments were.
You, my dear, make the clock stop
with your eye-locking, time-stopping whisper.
Fingertips and licking lips
have never felt so pure.
Skin on skin and pressing deep
has never made me feel so sure.
We might only be unified for a moment,
and not for all the rest of time.
But, we’ll not forget this, I can promise you;
because, for a moment, you were mine.
As Rumi said many years ago,
lovers are in each other all along.
They don’t just finally meet somewhere.
Together, they’ve always belonged.
Some are meant to hold your hand quite briefly
as you journey through time and space.
Other’s will hold you indefinitely,
long after your final embrace.
From this day forth, you’re my revivalist—
you brought me back from death.
With grace and class and elegance,
I drew life from your very breath.
*To read the original six series of poems, visit: