There are several things:
Photographic memories of the peripheral visions
of the nights when we dodged puddles.
The soft underbelly of the air between us
when we held hands.
And the grains of salt I kissed on your neck
scattered and cast across the sky as stars.
The bones of our history are collapsible,
The ligaments: weakly sunlit afternoons on trampolines with other boys.
I tore that tendon long ago.
Curl my fingers around the porcelain
and sip the French roast of your savory words.
Our youth was quilted square by square
and is spread out between us;
it covers the distance between arched eyebrows,
a common thread in our uncommon journey.
I cannot quite formulate words with my twisted body
but if I could, they would scream of silk and satin
and the cusp of your hand on my hip.
Your kisses conjure dew on my lips;
there are a thousand simulations
of canned and tinned adolescent dreams
and canvas sails unfurl behind our cars
when we speed too fast down two-lane roads.
So when in doubt, breach the velvet
of anything between us:
your fingerprints have ridges
meant to fit in my valleys.
The corners of your smile
peel off the paper of your face;
I could trace the creases of your expression
and fold you into origami,
a paper plane whispering to the air.
Your eyes the pods that hold the seeds
to a soul guarded by see-through lids.
And when the shushed lashes
sweep across your cheeks
more has been conveyed to me
than words alone have the power to tell.