Again

The backdrop of a cicada swarm
falls away again
to the sound in my head,
the vibration in my gut
that tells me
you're here, with me.

Still not sure what to call it,
I still believe in it,
and I still listen for you.
And we begin to sink into this thing.

How can I say "you" or "me"?
How do I ever know what is "we"?
But inconsequential words
won't help me unravel this knot.
Inconsequential deeds do not
bring to me skeptical disbelief.
Fall or fly, down or up,
and choke on the separation
and drown in the connection,
but all I ever do is listen,
to see if I can hear you.

Belief, disbelief, regret, hope,
all these little things
disappear as my head stops its spin,
and I hear you whisper,
"I love you"
all over again.
This thing is all I want.
Years of denial don't change me,
and years of dismissals
don't keep you out of me.

"I fear maybe only death
will end for us, this thing."