And you are–?

Why not meet twice?
Why not three times, or four?

Why catalogue our knowledge, keep each other
in a store that we must draw on every time
we pass, until we burn the substance of
our mystery from thick intrigue to paper
panes of penetrable glass?

I have met you.
Forget all that.  Come meet with me again.

Let all the skittish, probing questions fly
and bounce around the ether, blind, unsure,
and bloomed to blushing courage by encouraging reply
that says: I do not know you yet–but I
would push myself out of my mouth, project
from teeth and tongue and tangle in your air
an exhale between one kiss and one ‘goodbye’

We meet.
And, simply, without knowing why,

Our fingers brush, our blood is heated by
an unfamiliar voice, and we ask: why?
In fitful fantasies, insomniac twists,
we sate our fascination, drinking in
the intertwine of lives and legs and longing
to be met; to melt; intensify that passing
on the street, meet, and re-meet, skin upon skin,
and heart from heart, and mingling steam with steam.

I meet you morning, afternoon, and night.
And every time, I find we can meet twice.

If I know you, how can I redefine
each hand-mapped inch and memorized fragment,
each hair and blush and blemish of a face,
and every tripping meeting, every time?
And find we do not owe but to eachother,
and as do twisted roots, we grow together.

Let us meet.

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