You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


the only moment we were alone

THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I get to watch you sleep, I realize, ever wondering how much of you do I really know, how much of you remains a secret, your doors and locks – puzzles I am not supposed to solve. I am alone…with you. There is no sound or wind even, just a faint sliver of moonlight filtering through curtains, on your skin as if vaporizing upon contact. Now, it’s just us, occupying the same space in time. Now, the world drifts away into the night, diminishing into a mere echo of a story – untold, phantom whispers bouncing back and forth on the walls of the universe. I develop a heightened sense of awareness, of shadows leaving marks on the walls, of the fact that we are breathing the same air, of the stretch of bed sheet that separates us like an ocean, too treacherous for anyone to cross. I memorize your curves, your edges, your eclipses underneath the sheets; every ripple, locks of hair beautifully falling across your face sending me into a bittersweet reverie of how beautiful you already are from this distance that stretched out like the heavens, of how in this only moment we are alone, I ache for your heartbeats, hoping that somewhere, between a lub and a dub, a gap would open, just enough for me to walk through and be truly yours.