This

When I feel exactly
this - and want this
to arrest itself
and last, and know
with some sort of
small but happy
certainty that
there will always
be this
to come back to -
I hope in some
small and scared
corner of whatever
it is that feels
this -
that you share
in the this
of mine and know
that to me
this is not some
small thing
even if it fits
in the dimple
of your
sideways smile.

I wonder if
this, sometimes,
was a mistake -
I wonder if I
had not grown
on this
and not fed
some corner
of me that
swelled and burst
with this -
if I would know
what this
even was.

This can fade,
it can wear itself
thin, and trickle
slowly away
but it will leave
in some small corner -
a feeble pulse,
a beat ready
to take this
and drum out
its thrum
and live
its music.