on being one at sunset

To confuse myself with you is not such a stretch of the imagination.
The palm of my hand on your cheek.
Or is that your palm – my cheek?
My fingertip feels your skin,
Or am I feeling my fingertip with your skin?

Now, spent, I confuse us with the waning day.
Soft glow, dying orange light
Illuminates the undersides of the rustling leaves out the window.
The slow, thick color of sunset gives everything a light of its own.
Orange and purple.
It flows around us, like it bathes the leaves.
Over, around, beneath.

I can feel the day melting on my skin, heavier each moment.
I can feel my skin become the sunset.
I melt.
You melt.
Dark falls.
We dream
One dream.

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