For Sasho

What is it you misunderstand?

Your beauty, or my softness

that seeps through the gratitude we call 

us

and fills the ever leaking stream

of consciousness I deem, 

incorrectly,

you.

Take my hand,

Fair Dreamer of warmth and honey,

let me hold your sticky, pollinated eyes

in the palm of my days

and caress the electricity of your thoughts in motion.

Sit with me a while 

in the quiet being of almost sleep

and eat these sweet raspberries 

I plucked from the tree outside your window

as we osculate into the liminality of

your sheets.