How delicate his touch, like the tender
barbs of a feather, despite
his constant mood swings, sharp
quills of his temper. He never
bunched his fist. No physical
impact. No bruises marbled
purple. One night
 
his lovemaking was so exquisite
I thought, In this realm
there’s nothing left to do
or feel. So wrong. We could not
stop the scorch & blister. Time
rolled over us like a tumble
weed in flames.