this is gravity,

the tongue-tied brush
of a plastic heart (beauty
wrapped around fingertips
in waiting, will you
come?)

to you, apart, the feeling
beneath my feet
is soft as the oats sowed,
slow, in the years passed;
once, you wrote the
skies onto the backs
of my hands
and upon my
penned arms
and stippled legs
to say,

“This is you,
this is you,
this is
you.”