I woke up, one day, with a poem by my side.
It was warm, and its form, clear in the obscurity of the room
attracted my skin, with the silence of its pliable lines
tracing the voice of my own form
also warm, in the clarity of the awareness in diffusion
beyond, and yet, within the shadows
still clothing the space.
When I inhaled it, fearfully
the poem answered, in surprising reflection
with a sigh overflowing audacity
and a whisper, which I drank in the concavity of thirst
because I perceived it as my own inspiration
in a serene, irresistible invitation
to fluently breathe.
The air unfolded, then, in the embrace that submerged us
and the space folded in to emerge as light.
The morning shredded the fear that the night had already crumpled, anyway
by the bed upon which it had fallen, defeated by fatigue.
We then wrote, the poem and I
the released form of a singular essence, nude
suspected, maybe, in a dream of presence pure
that the awakening within each other revealed.
And the obscurity falls asleep, as we recite one another
clearly, in the voice, unique and warm, which we created
in an act of love.