The idea for this poem came to me earlier this month, after I had biked through a thunderstorm. Like usual, I procrastinated writing it down, hoping that it would go away and I would forget all about it. Like it always does, the idea hung around and drove me insane until finally I sat down and wrote it. It doesn’t feel totally right, so there may be a few more versions to follow, but I think this turned out okay.
Only my hands can find you.
There is no logic
yearns for equations and rules.
Your hands are pressed against the glass
somewhere in the muscle tissue.
I only see you
when I look sideways.
You love the rain and the wind.
You come out when the moon is full.
I feel you reaching
for my voicebox
rising to the surface
of my skin
wanting to be made flesh.