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

troublingly beautiful,

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.