Types of Intimacy

He told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I can see better
than ever before.