For L.

 

What I want to do is slide your toes under my thigh
Wrap each of your fingers with my own, pads and palms pressed with only the weight of our bodies’ gravity.

 

What I want to do is smooth the skin around your g-tube
Wipe away the garish name, soothe the slit skin, calm the turbulent waters of your stomach.

 

What I want to do is enter your mind through your open eyes
Reading every buzz and flicker and molding to it, giving you everything you want without the need to say a word.

 

What I want to do is cup the two raised lumps beneath your collarbone
Protect the medi-ports and cushion your ribs, feeling them reach all the way into your heart.

 

What I want to do is kiss your wounds closed
Sealing the entry points of needles and wires and tubes

(I recall the last moments when this membrane barrier was still precious, each shot and pinch an assault to your body’s protection. What I want to do is give you your outsides back.)

 

What I want to do is siphon myself of energy
Of joy, of luck, of hope, of strength, and funnel it straight through the mediports deep into the chambers of your heart.

 

What I want to do is raise you up
And watch you walk up St. Nicholas Ave with grocery bags and your ukelele.

 

What I want to do is buy you coffee
Watch you sip the espresso from underneath the foam, bitter and hot.

 

What I want to do is stretch my arms
From my bed all the way to yours, and wrap you up in my hands, your heart curled into my palm, your legs threaded through my fingers, your head resting on the soft pad of my thumb.

 

What I want to do is cradle you
So when you sleep, all you feel is soft warmth and comfort, and deep inside, your soul can rest and let me bear your body.

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