I will miss the landscape of your back
Silhouetted, dark on pale blue,
the blue of those shades we paid too much for,
but they lowered from the top as well as lifted.
You bought them so I could sleep under the moon.
My hand in silhouette, too
Drifting soft across the rises and falls of your bones,
Not the demanding patterns of our youth;
We were children really
When I would sketch words on your back
And make you guess them.
Less demanding these, circles like cycles
Obelisks that trace your shoulder blades,
The lift of shoulder against light;
Spirals from your neck to the small of your back;
As far as I can reach
Without shifting your head from my chest.
Spirals, reaching, etching
Dark on light
Skin on shadow
Against the dusk of the blue window.