Anticipation
I have a capacity for love
that stretches every time he makes me
a dust-mote in the iridescent
ocean of eye-light.
I’m suspended in time and in
place, yet I swell.
I know I could grow forever,
glittering like amethysts and pearls before swine
until I puncture the universe
and leak out in increments
through the stratosphere.
He makes me stop breathing
and still go on
-heedless, regardless, relentless-
I could suck the stars dry,
but until my lips touch his
I’m only this:
The air you hold in your lungs too long
before your first time flying.
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