The Delicate Sprigs Of Love Poem by David Watts

He is sitting next to her.
The firmness of her thigh is pressed against his.
There is no light between them.

He listens so heavily
into the heartbeat of her that he hears the murmuring
of aspens on the hillside.

He tells her this.
How could he sit next to her if he didn't
tell her this?

She is beautiful
in the manner in which there is so much beauty
it almost cancels itself.

I can lie down
in the golden shape of your shadow, he says,
and no longer question myself.

She wonders
if they were just prisoners of the freedom
that brought them there.

Or if to love him
would mean waiting for promises, lying awake,
in the draft of crossing stars.

They kiss
and though he is still alone in the fear that no one will ever kiss him
he is sitting next to her.