The sky is thick and blank
too close, dark
a color I can't define
like the backs of my eyelids.
And a few high branches make black silhouttes of
arms, wrists, fingers, reaching
and we're lying on the bridge
and it's too late at night
our feet twist in the air, suspended
but from our knees up, we're as solid
as these cold, soft planks, spaced exactly
and stretched between two banks
the water is loud in the cold cathedral space below us,
but his chest is warm and smooth under my fingertips.
We're both looking up, blankly
Focusing on this one warmth,
this one contact,
these circles and swirls,
flesh on flesh,
heat,
barely touching, really
but warmer than
the thunder of water and those four stars
bright enough to pierce the sky