There is blood between us
on the inside of my lips
and the inside of your thighs
curling up like smoke
to grasp your feeble body
love's ghostly fingertips all over
remnants of whispers
to remind you what it felt like to fly.
Caught up in our old bed
splintered memories of this old house
your breath singing as it brushes me
as the magic flows from your eyelids
to paint the silhouette of a dream.
I am not a ghost
but sometimes you make me feel like one -
too beautiful, too pure to be of this world
only a soul made of stained glass
made of love songs
by your delicate pianists fingers.
I found love in your bone structure
with your soul worn across your lips.
I want you to tell me again
about all the times you found a purity in my eyes,
the blank skin upon which
they were set like jewels
and those when you grinned cheekily
when I told you how beautiful
you really are.
Note: This poem was a joint effort between my girlfriend and I; half the credit goes to her.