I wish it was enough

Because my first love is a memory
of fragmented photographs and a funeral
of love in songs long dead, we are alive

when our fingertips meet. When we wade
through spaces, our longing becomes real
weight: the pendant on your neck, a compass

pulled towards the minute intervals between
directions. What do you have with you
that won't reach me? A question like this

makes me worry, as if it is only absence
that makes us ask. I wish it was enough
to say here is a stone and in your hand

it can only be a heart, mine. Do you see
how transformation is romance? If not
change, then the gravity of the idea

of possession. If not that, then stones
with all their inert capacities to become
this thing that has a beat, meaning a beat

that we could dance to and as I hold you
so close, we will realize that we beat
in waltzes. Will you dance this dance

with me? Imagine how we could
defeat distances with every step-
close-step, our hands folded, molded

in perfect clasp, saying we make sense,
in this moment, our hearts, our hearts
are in the present, feeling so alive.