As you reach for me
your hands pour through
my thirst hung upon the tips
of your baptismal fire
touch ritual, touch breath
our skies begin
to merge
emerge
reverberate
we, sharing ribs, we,
trading gestures
collecting, reciprocating.
I return always to
you return to
my hands pour forth
for you
how you touch me
from underneath the pain,
cyclic redemption of what you are
how even without skin
held only by the body of
the empty air in this bluefade room
I can feel you move.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 