We sat so close to one another that
I could feel your breath on my neck,
your stubble against my ear.
In that moment, I felt safe.
But later, when you sat
with your hand on my heart, and talked about
the next small fraction of the millenium
all that I could see was blackness.
I may really not have heard what you said at all.
And all I feel in this space of non-remembering is
naked, terrified and exposed.
Dreams and hopes have a kind of rawness, and dreaming
can be so singularly unforgiving.
And love --
Well, love is only the golden glue
that holds together the thousand fragmented prayers
and other broken things.