There is the danger, of course, that nothing is new,
that I only remind you of something you used to know,
an echo of something you may have wanted
once - another him, perhaps.
The way one would steal your breath with a stunning kiss;
a scent you've known, daubed at my wrist or neck;
the way your spine curves to meet the need
of the body curled behind you -
perhaps I am a collection of all these things.
A patchwork of familiar fragments.
A note in my voice, reminiscent of a song you loved
but have forgotten how to name.
Have my fingers traced the same curious paths
as others that have known the glazed skin
of the thin scar on your left thigh?
Does the way you arch your back
belong to me?
- Jacob Sam La Rose