Be still a moment, while I attempt to explain this

It won’t come out right,
But I am trying to tell you.
So bear with my arm, my eyes, my lips,
For I know no other way than this.

I.
When you sleep – those rare moments,
For it seems you never dream,
It is vulnerable, so silent,
Like snow blanketing the shards
Of your splintered wine glass.

II.
I had parents once.
They shared a room in a house someplace
I was too small to remember.
When I became a man,
The room, the house, disappeared in a sunrise.

III.
The brush of your fingers,
The way it makes my skin stand up, erect,
Makes me write poems again.
And when you are not here,
I cry alone in salty anger.

IV.
When they look at you
And I feel them reading me,
I touch your hand to make it real
And remember Sara, her brown hair
Waving back at me in the wind.

V.
It is only in that moment
Before we meet together for rest,
That I want to push
And show you the length
Between the cherries and their blossoms.

VI.
It is not your fault
I cannot remain numb.
They make drugs I cannot take for that.
But you feel like summertime
And here, snow falls for six more weeks.

VII.
I must not say this in words,
But at night, when it feels blackly dense,
And I can see my own hair on your cheek,
I dream of ways to show you
Cherries, snow, blossoms, and summertime.