the burden of context

i want to say
"you rest at the foot of the bed,
and i am pained by the 3 feet between us,"
but how can i want you so simple
in the tempest of academia, feminism,
and the like

i could speak of the borders
constructed by language or culture,
how every word and look that was ever thrust upon has built the divide
that privileges me with the pillow
and damns you to the end with the cracker crumbs and wine stains

or perhaps this rolling blue blanket is really the Atlantic Ocean
and ours is a problem of colonization.
is our love really just conquer and conquest?
have i exoticized you to eroticize you,
your brown and savage masculinity some impulsive euro-bred addiction?

and can you just be far away from me,
or are you lejos de, loin de, vom
?
am i hurting us if i can't need you in every language?

is each touch a confirmation of some oppressive discourse?
can you kiss me without joining some age-old conversation?
can you fuck me?
can YOU fuck me?
can you FUCK me?
can you fuck ME?
and be certain of everything that means?

but then

you look at me, see me
and we're somewhere beyond words and philosophies,
our lips meeting above now and history,
and every thought every one ever constructed
is reduced to: skin.