The look of love



When I woke up,
in the middle of the night
to your face
under candelabra light,
I breathed in the night,
wild and young

and now,
that I am seventy-two,
I look back
and remember you,
for how your face was obscured,
for how your eyelashes fluttered,

and I felt your hand grab mine
and the smooth skin
that both of us claimed
melded into clay
when our bodies writhed,

but at seventy-two,
as I watch you,
with your worn hand in mine,
your eyelashes still flutter
and your skin still melds
to mine

you are the same as you were,
and I am the same as I was,

wild and young as that night