The Weight of All Things

What part of the body aches
when I tell the curve
of my shoulder,
the bend
at my waist to “hush!”
Will that make them stop?
When desire burns
like a flame
for the soft trailing brush
of your fingers,
for the intertwining
of our arms, our legs,
where I have to wonder,
is it the body or,
is it the brain?
that wants this much
to measure
the weight of all things.
Like the length
of your legs
against my own
with how much pressure,
how much force,
pressed as though
two flowers
between the pages
of a book,
is how I constantly want
to find myself – with you, and you alone.

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