upon the crease of my palm,
that thin crumple where skin meets skin
yet never once parted, but still
leaves a dark light at the pencilled seam
where i become damp and warm
as you look with a little too much distance
into the crater of my pupils,
reaching and reaching with some
scratching kind of light - some
raw-edged sort of need, and i realise
it is a need for me, or at least
something deep under my skin
and through flesh and blood and bone
and even my very marrow, where you
are searching for it, so closely,
alighting suddenly at my core
- my tense, tender spinal chord -
and taking my breath as yours.

upon the crease of my palm,
you began a journey that started at
that darkened line and ended in

the dark.