Geographic

You are a fleeting experience,
one that drifts away from me
like living fog on the riverbanks of my fingertips.
In the light of this beach bonfire
I can taste deeply the sweetness of your colors
and the salt of your skin.

If I held my hand outstretched in front of me
I could say that it marks the depth where my love exists.
From this distance I could see the curve of your cheek
meet the fold at the corner of your eyes.
I could use my finger to trace the gradient of your smile
like the slope of a grassy hill on the horizon;
silhouetted by the setting sun behind your teeth.

Come closer to me,
so close that I am standing on a ledge above the clouds,
so close that I could say that  I am falling into you from the high atmosphere
with nothing to slow my descent but the butterflies in my stomach.
As I fall I fail to memorize your blemishes and pores
and the wetness of your lips
because I am still trying, and failing to memorize your eyes.
My hands grab and claw at the buffeting winds
to cut through air and earth to let you engulf me.