Heartbeat
It happens
in the year between
growing up and growing old:
perhaps sneaking in
through the cracks in our conversation,
the space from breath to moment.
It happens
in the gap between
limbs unwrapped
and fingers intertwined:
death
rubs against my legs
like an old alley cat,
creeping up uninvited
to purr and paw
and beg for my attention.
Because these nights
are thin as tissue paper,
brittle as a sigh,
a brief imperfection
in the weave of moments:
my fingerprints could shatter them,
my words blow them away,
and I am greedy
for permanence.
But tonight
you will find me
in this bed
in the vampire hours,
crushed beneath the turning of the world.
My sorrow is the motion
of the lavender sky.
I am tangled
in our bodies,
I am listening
to something
I have never heard before:
your heartbeat,
which becomes the guardian
of my breath,
your skin my blanket,
your bones my pillow,
your life unfolding
like a universe beside me
as seconds slip from the clock,
the sound inside you slowing,
the future never so far away
as when we sleep,
pulse to pulse.
Copyright (c) 2001
by Beth Kinderman. This is my original
work, so please respect it.