and the distance between us and the moon.
Us being us, we have to name it. Put small
words to a large thing. Beautiful, silver, full.
I love you
but will not tell you in
what ways, and this is what keeps
my desire full.
There are lines I could write like, my love for you
is a hidden swell, just for the pleasure
of imagining you crossing it out.
There is a wild lavender bush lit by the moon.
And when I muddle its purple between
my fingers, drawing it to my neck,
I remember you are sensitive to smell. I
apologize and you say, It’s not like I am
going to nuzzle you — so maybe
this is an elegy, for the scent on my skin,
bittersweet reminder of all the ways you will not
touch me. No —
this is an ode. For the lavender and for
the moon, too, for the ecstatic distance
that keeps me begging, silently,
for you.
