You lean back into me.
And suddenly, I am conscious
of just how I breathe,
just how my heart
is beating in my chest,
and I hope you don’t notice it
against your back,
that I am trying to exhale
in an even rhythm.
Sometimes, when you are on my mind,
there is pressure in my chest,
buoyant
and warm,
and it, I cannot let go.
So I grip it tight in my hand,
and maybe you feel my hand between us,
pressed against your spine,
holding it back
as we lean here
into one another.
My tongue stumbles when time to say
what I am thinking.
To say it
means to stand naked while you observe.
So I grip fast that chest feeling
because if I did not,
where
would be my room
to breathe?
How could I measure, so carefully, my in and outtakes of air?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know quite
how to lean back into you.
But if I do nothing else,
I have to get this off my chest.
I want to open my hand
and let you see underneath.
It is yours.
