My words are real when

My words are real when I know
(you) will read them--alive, moving towards (you)
in the darkness of sleep, or desire
i begin to think pen and paper are trying to heal,
a salve for lonely hands, shallow months, overflowing with footsteps,
sunlight and incidents, but no embrace (like yours)--made first of eyes,
until arms enfold in the warmth of flannel and earth,
in the scent of a Mexican flower (or is it a tree?) I cannot name. The page grasps
what keeps slipping through. Each day made and emptied of your solid form,
(your opaque heart), and voice full of expressions which are loving
without reference to love. Unknowingly, I let silence live
between dishcloths and passion. My hands busy turning over peaches on the counter,
looking for mold, busy with crumbs and drops of water, yet searching
for a few words, while (you) wait for laughter, do not say.