Three or Four Shades of Blue

It is 6am and I douse my hands in the iridescent afterpuddle
of your tender, gaping words. Septembers lingering chill, a fade to silence mordent:
                       measure to measure, each second from unlit window to white fence,
un                                       dyingly sweep the sunlight to the horizon,
warming the succession of rubato affettuoso heartbeats, one swell un     clenching
                                                                             to the next. You are asleep now.
You dream in circles, where the curved stems of forget-me-nots meet
the waterway and we are infant boats bobbing downstream,
buoyant along copper coasts. I want to wake you,
                        the hush of our breaths shifting between lips.
  I imagine us walking the hours, seconds before a paper sun
                                  shatters early morning.  We take the path beside
choke-cherry and vine.                      I imagine an ambush or surrender
                                                                            there, your tongue sifting shards
                seeding all that you have so much to say.
                                                I turn toward you, push mine to yours as if to ease
                                                  the ache--as if to remove the gauze and the casts
and finally find myself sprinting.                   You welcome it. I imagine another kiss
as if my chest could circulate all of the lost clouds
i                       nto one untangled, floating world,
as if I could feel yours charted with mine
leaving my body lifeless, awaiting next birth.
                                               Oh how I burn. Thighs tightly together
                                                                its too much, its too much.