Ryan James

 

Lifelines.

 

Lifelines.

 

 

 

The movement of light that is your casual palm

tracing through the bubbling thoughts

and golden hair.

Breathing in the line where the sun meets your face.

You are a poem manifest

and I want nothing more than to watch you breathe.

The lingering taste of coffee beans on your lips

you have become the equation

of my deepest exhale.

I kiss your sleeping eyelids

and follow their gaze to the softness of your chest.

I want nothing other than this place.

Death is but a blurred line between art and faith.

I know of the subtle rumbling of clouds

and write your name in the space where God herself has danced.

I long to walk my index finger

across the lifelines on your hands.

Your language my diary,

your laugh, an answer to my prayer

I twirl ribbons in circles to mark this space.

The rich caramel of your back

uncrumpled paper

and on it I write, “Will you stay?”.

The smile that has become the world in which I live,

is beyond any answer I need.

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