What You Said

What you said to me —
not what you said, but how you said it,
in a voice like bees drowsing around the sill,
a murmur one hair above whisper; with
enough volume to pause me in mid-kiss
and make me pull back and see you
newly, wiping the sweat from my eyes
and re-opening them to see you again
as you were when we first met;
what you said
held me in a cloud, a mist of suspension,
slightly afraid of touching down and losing
this rising, this hovering as if by angels 
above the warm but finite earth, 
what you said
that is only recalled as tattoo upon my back,
as being there always but requiring a turn,
an effort to see it;
what you said.

Oh, what you said —

all I need now and always
is in what you said that day
that pulled me into you,
into my life that I call now

us

we two

the two of us 

one.

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