Once, we felt one another’s bodies the same way rain feels the ground.
This was the same year the neighbors caught a lone wheelchair
rolling down the pavement next to their driveway
in the middle of a windstorm so strong
it tore off all their house’s siding.
There was no one in that wheelchair, just a phantom body,
just a collection of phantom limbs.
And we fell upon each other inside our own damaged house,
while the wind howled outside the walls,
tongues finding mouths and mouths finding hips,
both of us beautiful together like a full moon
before it wanes into a crescent.
Strange, how even the living fight with the dead
long after the dead are gone from the living.
We loved each other so hard inside that bed
that it could have left holes inside the wood, and maybe it also left
holes inside our skins, so that when we finally fell apart,
the wind came through us too.
It was only years later, after that storm had ended,
the wheelchair had been sent away to a hospital
to be used with someone other than the previous owner,
and we had split apart and lived halfway across the world
from one another without ever having spoken since
that I finally understood:
the whole time we were together we were just phantom limbs-
using one another to fill time
until we finally found the other bodies we were meant to be with
just like that wheelchair left its owner to do the same.