Not since I last touched you

Not since I last touched you have my fingers felt at home.
In my hand my pen is an arrow reaching for you;
arching, flying, pulling with it such a weight.
Such immensity tied to a little string — the strongest little string;
a boy’s string knotted at its end with boy’s knots to a boy’s heart.
But what a heavy heart for such a boy to bear.
Yet the string does not break and the arrow does not tire,
and the weight does not lighten,
as it sails over empty horizons, empty of your smile,
pulled down by your pull.
Your pull, such is your pull that my words fall without reaching you,
though I cast them with such destiny;
your pull, such is your pull.
What could possibly traverse this vast Earth to reach you?
Only the light of purpose and the careless of intent.
They frolic to you freely, blindly — kept at safe but closer distances.
My love flies to you now with the weight of eternity;
but your pull, such is your pull that as it flies it falls —
your inevitable door kept waiting.
How is it that your gravity at once draws me to you from infinity,
and at the same time makes my blankets such a burden that to lie beneath them seems the only thing?
As my heart moves swiftly there, to you, my feet are frozen here;
here, here where you are not and I am —
not an inch of me is here, but every inch of me is here.
Here where there is only paper and pen and the weight of implication;
the weight of nothingness, the weight of possibility;
the weight of numberless nights already and the promise of how many more?
Each as empty as the next, empty of your smile;
empty of your glowing figure, glowing as Ideal, as unspeakable Truth, as form and flawless shape —
glowing only now beyond a pale shadow, beyond an empty, singing silhouette.
It sings to me, “Here! Here is Woman! Untouchable!”
Will my hands hold your face again? Your contours they could mold with clay from memory.
Or grasp your quickly speckled shoulders? Bumps a shadow cannot share with me;
your million little promontories, imminently hidden.
My muscles beg of Atrophy some mercy; He asks why they have not been put to use.
My fingers, skeletal, are dying;
the rust ruins their shape.
Will the grooves of that great gate accept them? Will the lock still turn?
They long to be reminded of the spell
which gave them life.
They believe there is still magic there, for they are pregnant with it here;
here, here between the weight of your pull, pulling me to you and pulling me down.
My hands remain ashore, eyeing always the storm and praying for a chance to brave it.
They are not afraid.
For you are there and I am here.
Here, so far from that beautiful “h” word;
here, so far from home.
My love,
not since I last touched you have my fingers felt at home.
In my hand my pen is an arrow reaching for you;
arching, flying, pulling with it such a weight,
such a weight,
waiting.
Where, my Goddess, is your door?

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