Lost.

For what is tenderness, if not an echo
of the way you make me lose control?
A warmth that surpasses all rigidities
And trembles at the very heart of who we think we are?
I. am. not. in panic.
This loss of control is deliberate...
Your gifts are not something I need to own.
The tangible and ephemeral shimmers at the edge
of where our realities meet-
Like mother of pearl caught beneath the waves.
The fleeting fear of falling into you
Is quickly surpassed by my desire to
Jump and let arms and legs go slack, akimbo...
I feel so much
I care not if I should hit the ground.