love is the way

you trample me with your soft fingers;
clay in your palms – i am clay in your hands,
they say love is akin to death, but i disagree.
it's an undoing, you spill every ounce of you
and hope enough splatters on them, and that
they spill right back. that's why my hands are
quivering penning this poem right now.
i ask you to light a candle and point me in the
direction of salvation, and you hurdle the sun at
me, what else am i to do then wear your words on
me like sunscreen? i'm convinced i died the night
we first met, my body was meant to ascend but is
weighed down the weight of yearning that churns
in the pit of my stomach. maybe you encompass
everything heaven has to offer. i'm homesick
but never with you. you are the sea quelling its
tide to grant me safe passage in a rowboat –
your shore is hundreds of kilometers
from here, but the voyage is pleasant enough
that i don’t mind dying en route.