Counting digits

I placed a moment out of reach,
too young to explain the details
embroidered on its
white cotton sleeve.
 
I trusted it to mother,
she carried it behind closed eyes,
curved reflections pushing shapes  
into a wrapped tight blanket.
 
I watched the light as it entered open eyes,
then scattered into saucers,
settling like fish returning
to the deepest parts of the pool.
We lay there casting quiet,
as the battle tent raged above us.

I held that moments single note,
gripped by translucent fingernails
so small, so imperfectly real.
Inhaled your sweet and perfect pale
that deepened scent of skin revealed.

My breath spread incantations
that promised you my touch.
The kiss I forged on your forehead
would only let in dreams, tell stories
of the worlds we’d weave and all
the songs they’ll come to sing.