Curl of you

Sometimes
I think I am wrong to want a woman
when I

feel the soft curl of you
and hold the pieces
that keep you together,
coiled in to yourself and quietly
bound
to this bedroom

where
I grasp at you, grasp peeling
flesh from your body
seeking sameness underneath
the touch of grace
and water, smooth
all over and clear,
cool, connecting

intimately
I exist with you
on the planes of sex,
love, eyes with their lashes and fingers
with their tips

equally open our guts
poured out on dirty sheets
for the other to inspect

and looking at you from above
there is almost no difference.