Agape is the quiet space
smooth, and tender;
the gap,
the very many gaps—
we’ll start with four—
that you fill
by linking your fingers in mine,
placing them
exactly where they belong,
where you belong
right here.
Agape is the warmth
of your breath on my throat
on a humid sun-kissed day,
when the sun is so hot
that I want to shred and shed
my skin,
but I welcome the heat of your embrace
like a falcon fills its wings with flight;
Agape
is the coolness
of your winter-chilled finger
naked on my cheek
that traces my face and chisels new lines
because I have to smile
at your touch.
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