Across the Universe

I remember the first night you held my hand—

our bodies, still wet from a swim,

lied down side by side on a beached boat:

two separate parallel lines

steadily sailing across time and space.

Yet you, my love, bridged your world to me:

your moon-bathed fingers slid through

the spaces of my hand,

and like a conqueror to a foreign isle,

it was your warmth that gathered all things

pure and unquiet

to leap up to my small body,

to climb up to my parted lips.

How I became aware of my own heartbeat,

my lengthen breaths,

my tiniest pulsations,

wary of the extent of the Earth beneath

or the abyss of the galaxies in front of us:

the stars which were burning their cores

to light the path of your gaze—

those tiny mirrors of infinity reflecting back

all my coming days with you:

vibrant, joyful, mysteriously sweet.

So forgive me, my love, if somehow I have

missed all the cues for a first kiss

for I was too busy decoding an emotion

so strange I had mistaken your silhouette

as an extension of the horizon behind you:

as if your soul was impenetrable,

as if you were a prized treasure

planted by God on a mythical island

never to be touched by me nor by anyone.

Nonetheless, by the moment you held my hand

on that boat, under the crescent moon

you already knew the answer to an

unspoken question

when you have chosen to sail away with me

hand in hand

across the universe;

that moment which never ends,

that moment I fell deeply in love with you.