You have not known love
until you are sitting on the floor
of an empty dorm, thinking
about his breathing rate,
wondering if the corner of his ear
faces the quarter blown moon
and if the pillow that touches his face
is warm with his heat.
Then all you want
is to be the air that he inhales
and keep him alive
only with you inside
(for some weird reason an exhale
will end his life). You start
from his brain, knitting memories
of laughter and hidden gazes;
you want to remain there
but you glide to his heart
to turn it over and then knock
his rib cage down: the room you
occupy there, is much larger.
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