Sitting in half light

I see a half-life here, half-life destroyed, half left;
half right left to build upon,
half born of the destruction of its before-life.
half born before the after-life,
I see before the birth of the self, the death of the self.

Shrouded in the beauty of breath
I reach over and stroke your hair in the dark
you sleeping, and holding, and crushing me.
I close my eyes against the darkness,
darkness into darkness,
and I hold my breath
and imagine how it feels to be dead.

Now, I can't see you but I feel you there.
Your body keeps mine warm, hot in this summer weather
but I sweat contentedly here with you,
not bothered to be alone
and I wait for you to wake.
I say your name out loud and you wake just long enough to pull me farther into you
(, I need you so much closer,)
pressing my sweaty body into your sweaty body,
holding on so tightly I cannot move.

But I don't want to.
So I breathe again, deeply the warm air, and close my eyes.
I cannot see you but I know you are there.

I cannot see you but I know you are there;
here in the dark we lay together
telling secrets without speaking,
touching and wondering
and answering and knowing

alone together in the dark,
dark in this light,
and light in the dark heat,
holding and asking and wanting
but waiting and knowing and asking
(I'd rather be the one that loves than to be loved and never know.)

And now, I can't remember ever hearing you speak.
Surely there were words, but they must have been few
and, inconsequential?

It is the silence that has broken me
not speaking when not necessary,
but maybe it was.
It must have been
because without it, the rest is broken

Now I sit cross legged and floating over this city
suspended in the half light,
sitting in the silent heat, this time alone.